


To Catch a Cat Burglar

by thecaffeinequeen



Category: Miraculous Ladybug
Genre: (But he is also a precious cinnamon roll and must be protected), Adrien is hot stuff, Aged-Up Character(s), All the ballet, Also: puns, Alternate Universe, Alya and Mari are my brotp, Arrogant!Adrien, Ballet, F/M, Fluff, Honestly I just wanted a ballet fic so bad, Humour, Mystery, Romance, Thief Chat Noir, lil bit of angst, lots of coffee, mostly sass, sassy!Marinette
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-17
Updated: 2018-12-10
Packaged: 2019-04-01 08:31:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 40,794
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13994448
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thecaffeinequeen/pseuds/thecaffeinequeen
Summary: Marinette is living the high life. She’s a seamstress for the most prestigious ballet company in Paris, she’s apprentice to Gabriel freakin’ Agreste, and she gets to ogle hot danseurs all day long. (Three words: Butt. And. Thighs).Then an infamous cat burglar shows up determined to ruin the show, and things get a lot more complicated…(Or, the au in which Mari is a sassy-seamstress, Adrien is the arrogant star of the show, and Chat Noir seems hell bent on making Mari’s life as difficult as possible. Whelp).





	1. The Black Cat

**Author's Note:**

> Yay, my first fic on A03! Finally! (I've had this in my drafts folder for so long - finally got off my ass to finish it). Hope you like!

The theatre was in chaos. Perfectly delightful chaos.

If Marinette had had the time, she would have loved nothing more than to curl up in one of the velvet chairs and sketch the scene before her. Not just the gilded columns and picturesque danseurs and the heavy grandeur of the auditorium’s decadent baroque interior, but as it really was. A barely concealed mess. The flurry of movement, the yelling, the noise, her fingers itched to sketch it all. In the pit, the orchestra was practicing _Mazurka_ for what was possibly the twelfth time that morning because _someone_ in the brass section kept screwing up the bridge, while onstage, Madame Bustier was casting a critical eye over her danseurs, calling _Non! Non! Avec_ _grâce_ _!_ as she drilled them through their movements once again. She had to yell louder than usual to be heard over the cacophony the stage-builders were making. The dulcet tones of hammers, saws, and drills were clearly not a tune she appreciated. Nor were the efforts of the stage-crew as they tested the sound and lighting, though that was probably just because they had blinded her danseurs twice this morning already.

The closer it got to opening night, the more chaotic the theatre became. And while Marinette might have had a certain sick love for the frenzied tension that was skyrocketing as they approached the big day, she might have been alone in that feeling.  There was just over a week and a half left, and that meant that instead of the theatre being booked in at separate times, everyone’s schedules were overlapping and they were all stepping on each other’s toes in their efforts to get the million-and-one tasks that needed doing, done. Unfortunately, most of those tasks seemed to fall to Mari’s lot. There was just one problem standing in her way.

Literally standing, in this case. Chloé Bourgeois was not afraid to take up space. However, it wasn’t the standing that was getting to Marinette in this case, it was the _tapping._

“Keep still,” Mari warned, as Chloé jittered impatiently, “or I’ll stick you with a needle.”

She was kneeling before the danseuse with a handful of tulle skirts and the rapidly fading hope that maybe this time Chloé would let her finish.

“Could you stitch any slower?” Chloé snapped, her eyes glued to the stage and her foot tapping up and down. Tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap- _tap._ “How long does it take to hem a skirt?”

“Depends on whose skirt it is,” Mari muttered to herself. The tapping was doing nothing to aid her patience, or diminish her desire to escape into the wilds of the theatre with her sketchbook,

“Was that Marinette with one ‘t’ or two?” asked Mari’s other distraction. Her much friendlier, warmer, livelier distraction. But a distraction just the same. And in Alya Césaire’s case, ten times as unavoidable.

“Two.” Mari grunted, tying off a knot and biting the thread between her teeth.

Alya was the loud-mouthed, copper-haired, bombshell of a journalist assigned to cover the Opera National De Paris’ upcoming production of _Coppélia_ , and oversee all press-releases and information regarding it. Which meant that she had free reign of the theatre, and could basically interview whoever she wanted without anything to stop her. Not that Alya seemed like the type to allow anything to stop her. Usually Mari would have loved nothing more than to chat to someone as fun and smart-alecky as Alya, but she had fourteen costumes to finalise and she hadn’t had her morning coffee yet.

“You’re only twenty-two.” She noted, typing away, “That’s pretty young to be a costumes assistant on a production as big as this one.”

Mari smiled. “Yes. I’m lucky to be able to work under a designer as talented as Gabriel Agreste. I’ve always admired his work, and getting to be a part of a costume’s creation from start to finish and watch it come to life is a lot of fun.”

“And lot of work, I bet.”

“That too,” she admitted. “There’s been more coffee and tears in the last month than I care to recall. And it’s not over yet.”

Alya threw her legs over the seat beside her as her sharp eyes took in the scene around her. “Is it usually this crazy?”

“It’s not usually this bad,” Mari said. She winced as Chloé’s jittering caused her to stab herself with a pin – typical – and sucked at her finger. “There were some last minute ‘issues’ with one of our sponsors that meant the opening night got pushed forward three weeks. It’s screwed up our timeline royally.”

“Issues?”

Mari rolled her eyes. “Fancy talk for ‘we’re too low on the pecking order to get to know’.”

Chloé snorted derisively, and Mari glowered at her. She bet Chloé knew. Chloé’s father was their biggest sponsor, and what Daddy Bourgeois knew, Chloé was sure to wheedle out of him. Mari had no idea what had gone down, but she did know Madame Bustier had stormed around for a week in a black fury as she tried to re-organise months of planning, and co-ordinate every detail so they didn’t fall flat on their asses. Hence the reason Mari was here in the first place. Usually she’d be working in the costume-department at the Bastille, safe from any of the more annoying danseurs, but with the deadline so tight and so many last-minute alterations she didn’t have time to run back and forth between her workshop and the Palais Garnier.

Alya grinned but her reply was cut short as Chloé groaned.

“How much longer is this going to _take_?” she snapped. “I’m needed in rehearsal. In case you hadn’t noticed, I’m the premier danseuse – the star of the show!”

 _How could anyone forget when you keep reminding us every five minutes?_ Mari thought, rather uncharitably.

Aloud, she was more diplomatic. “I’m going as fast as I can, Chloé,” she assured her. “There are a lot of last-minute adjustments and you have more costumes than anyone else.”

“Whatever,” Chloé rolled her eyes. “Just hurry it up.”

“Marinette!” Natalie called. “Once you’re finished over there I have four more costumes that need hemming!”

“Yes Natalie!”

Alya’s hazel eyes gleamed with curiosity behind her wicked cat-eye glasses. “I heard somewhere you have three-thousand pearls to sew onto bodices?”

Mari rolled her eyes. “And a few hundred fake roses. Thankfully most of that is done though. Now it’s just-”

“Ugh, that’s _enough_ ,” Chloé swatted Mari’s hands away from her.

“Chloé!” she cried, as the ballerina stomped very gracefully towards the stage. “I haven’t finished yet!”

“Finish it later,” she snapped over her shoulder. “You can come to the penthouse after the last rehearsal.”

“ _Chloé!_ ”

But further argument was useless. The danseuse was already beyond her reach. If this were a cartoon, Mari would be shaking her fist by now. Instead she settled for getting to her feet with a sigh, and packing up her sewing kit.

“Lovely,” Alya muttered. “Is she always this charming?”

Mari rolled her eyes. “I’ve known her since we were fourteen so believe me when I say: unfortunately, _yes._ ”

“She seems like a brat.” Alya snorted. “Tell me, is it true that the choreographer had to change everything because Chloé insisted on playing both Swanhilda?”

“She _had_ to play the principal role but she couldn’t bear not to end up with the leading man,” Mari sighed, as she packed away her things. “…But if that ever makes it into your article, you didn’t hear it from me.”

“I guess you can afford to make those kinds of demands, when your daddy is the production’s biggest sponsor,” Alya said slyly.

Mari laughed. She most definitely liked Miss Césaire. “Tell me about it. I have four dresses for her alone, and they’re all unfinished because she’s always running off.”

“I wonder why?” Alya asked dryly, waggling her eyebrows at the stage.

Mari glanced over her shoulder. Onstage, Chloé was looping her arm through one of the danseur’s flirtatiously.  But not just any danseur. He grinned at Chloé, and ducked his head to whisper in her ear. Whatever it was it caused Chloé to give a sultry laugh. Though Mari doubted it was worth the enthusiasm.

Alya leaned in conspiratorially, “What’s the deal with _him_?”

“Adrien Agreste?” Mari barely restrained an eyeroll.

“Mm. What’s the story with golden boy?”

This time there was no stopping the eyeroll. “Classic overachiever, arrogant beyond belief, been dancing professionally since he was six.” She shrugged. “He’s an ass…but he has a great ass, so that kind of makes up for it.”

Alya cackled, “I wonder if I can put that in my article?”

“God, please don’t,” Mari laughed. “If I lose my job I’ll lose my will to live…on the other hand,” she waggled her eyebrows back at her, “it might drive up your ratings.”

Alya was still eying him closely. Not like Chloé – there was no drooling involved – but like she was trying to figure out how his cogs worked. “So, he’s arrogant?”

Mari shifted uncomfortably. “Well – I mean _look at him_. He has every right to be.”

They looked. On stage, Adrien was executing a short series of complicated jumps. The danseurs were in casualwear today, which for him meant old leggings and a grey t-shirt. But on him it was something else. He performed a grand jeté, leaping and scissoring his legs mid-air. For a moment, the stage lights lit up his hair in a golden halo, and he was suspended in flight. Mari rolled her eyes. _Doesn’t he ever get tired of being so perfect?_

“He is a stunner,” Alya murmured appreciatively. “At least if you have to put up with her, you also get to ogle him.”

Mari had been going to say he was talented, but she shrugged.

Adrien made it look effortless, dancing the way he did, though Mari knew for a fact it wasn’t. He was the company’s youngest premier danseur for a reason, and that reason was hard work. But sometimes – sometimes Adrien swanned across the stage like he owned it, and it was really hard to remember he was talented, and not just a total tool. The role of Franz probably suited him. Franz, the love-struck hero, who spent so long pining for Coppélia up in her window, that he forgot all about his fiancé Swanhilda down on the ground. He was a bit of a dimwit in Mari’s opinion. He didn’t even realise that Coppélia was a doll, or that her ‘father’ was evil. In the end, Swanhilda had to save him from Doctor Coppelius, who was going to sacrifice his soul in order to turn Coppélia into a real girl. Kind of like _Pinocchio_ gone wrong.

Adrien wiped his brow and beamed at something one of the other etoiles said to him, his charisma and charm practically oozing across the stage. Mari wrinkled her nose, but she knew she was only half as disgusted as she should be.

“There should be a limit to how unfairly attractive one person can be,” she muttered.

“Amen,” Alya said. “Has he always been like this?”

“Adrien has been brilliant since birth,” she rolled her eyes.

“Those leggings…” Alya shook her head at the stage. “Three words: Butt. And. Thighs.”

Mari giggled.

“Marinette! Where did you put the extra boning for the bodices? Gabriel needs it right now!”

“Coming Natalie!” she called. She cast Alya a frazzled look. “Sorry, I’m a bit busy now. Can we finish this interview later?”

Alya nodded. “How about we grab a coffee sometime this week?”

“Sounds great,” Mari sagged in relief.

“No problem.” She waved at a teen with tan skin and messy dark brown hair running around with a camera. “Manon! Remember to get behind-the-scenes shots of all the main cast and management, yeah?”

“Yes, Alya!”

Alya smiled indulgently. Then her wicked gaze shifted to the orchestra pit, where the musicians were taking a break. “I think I’ll go interview the musical director while I have a chance. He’s been eying me up for the last half hour.”

Mari chuckled as Alya sashayed off to accost Nino. She watched them a moment. Guys were a nice thought – hypothetically. She caught sight of Natalie waving, and hurried over.

She just didn’t have the time.

~

When Marinette arrived at _Le Paris Grand_ late that evening, security waved her past without a glance. It wasn’t her first time paying a house-call to Chloé’s place of residence. It was however, the first time Chloé hadn’t bothered to show up.

Instead, it was Sabrina that opened the door for her and showed her in. Mari smiled at her. Sabrina could usually be found at the Bourgeois residence; she was supposed to be Chloé’s personal assistant, but often ended up playing her maid. Mari wasn’t sure how purposeful Sabrina was when it came to managing Chloé’s affairs – it wasn’t like Chloé would ever listen to her if she advised her against something she’d set her mind to – instead, she rather suspected Sabrina was just there to be bossed around. Chloé had a habit of treating everyone like they were her personal servants. Everyone except the people she wanted something from, like her father, or the people she wanted, like Adrien.

Even then, she wasn’t particularly civil.

The most annoying part was, Chloé was incredibly talented. She’d been dancing professionally since she was a child, perhaps earlier even than Adrien. She’d probably had to practice twice as hard as him too, since ballet came to her less naturally. Instead, it was Chloé’s stubbornness that had gotten her to where she was today, to a place where she could bask in the attention that came with the role of the Academy’s prized princess. And as Mari glanced around again at the Bourgeois’ lavish penthouse, it seemed that Chloé really was every inch the princess. She shuddered, and turned her attention back to Chloé’s PA.

“How are you doing Sabrina?” She asked.

The girl bobbed her head meekly. That clearly hadn’t changed since their days at the Academy. “Good thanks, how about you? You must be busy with the show so close.”

“Pretty busy, yeah.” Mari gave a rueful smile. That was an understatement. She hitched the bags she was carrying over her shoulder. “How’s your dad?”

“Good,” she smiled shyly. “Even busier than us, if you believe it.”

“Oh yeah?” Mari asked with interest. “Has he got a big case at the moment?”

Sabrina hesitated, but only for a moment. Mari imagined the girl must be eager to be listened to for a change, instead of always listening. “He is actually.” Her voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper. “You know the cat-burglar that has been plaguing Paris?”

“You mean the one that broke into _Chaumet_?” she asked. It was one of the biggest jewellery stores in Paris; she’d have to be deaf not to have heard of it.

Sabrina nodded. “They’re calling him Chat Noir. My father is heading the investigation and he says Chat Noir has hit a dozen civilian properties in the last month.”

“Really?” Mari’s eyes widened. “I didn’t know it was that bad.”

“They’re keeping it quiet to avoid scaring the public,” Sabrina said, with an air of superiority. “Especially with the production coming up. The _Paul Saint Peter Collective_ is the show’s biggest sponsor – aside from Mr. Bourgeois – and how many rich people are going to show up to an event partnered with Paris’ biggest jewellery collective, if they’re afraid their valuables will be stolen?”

“Not many, I’m guessing.”

“Exactly.” Then she gasped and grabbed Mari’s hand in panic. “But please don’t tell anyone – my dad told me not to say anything!”

“I won’t,” Mari promised. “I _won’t._ ” she repeated when Sabrina failed to look convinced. Eager to change the subject, and to regain the circulation in her wrist, she cast a glance around and asked, “Do you know where I can find Chloé?”

Sabrina shrugged. “No idea.”

What a very helpful PA.

Mari said a quick goodbye and entered the bowels of the Bourgeois home. That was how she felt every time she entered Chloé’s apartment; as if she was entering the jowls of a hungry beast that would gladly swallow her whole. It had eaten everything else: money, artwork, lavish furnishings, and priceless furniture. She wondered how much everything in the penthouse would come to. She shuddered to think of it.

As she wandered around in search of Chloé – otherwise known as Mari’s biggest waste of time – she wondered where the hell she’d gotten to. She hadn’t gotten lost in her closet again, had she? But nope, she wasn’t there. Wasn’t in her bedroom, or her personal lounge, or in any of the usual places. When she did find her, it was purely by chance.

“ _Daddy._ ”

And boy did Mari know that familiar whine. She paused outside of Mr. Bourgeois’ private office to listen.

“Madame made me do a hundred soubresauts just for dropping out of position.”

“And next time it will be two hundred,” came Madame Bustier’s voice in an unforgiving tone.  “This is not the Academy, Chloé, and you are not a child.”

Mari snorted quietly. She begged to differ. She knew she shouldn’t eavesdrop…but heck, she was going to anyway. If Chloé could afford to give her the run-around twenty-four hours a day then Mari could afford to be a little nosey.

“Madame,” came Mr. Bourgeois’ severe voice. Even though he was no longer mayor, his voice still carried that old authority. “May I remind you it was my connections that helped you secure this job in the first place. I am not sponsoring your company solely for you to persecute my daughter.”

“No. You employed me because you expected the best,” Madame replied, just as severe. Mari could almost picture her raising one sharp brow, the way she used to do in class. “To deliver the best, I must demand it from my danseurs.”

“She’s always picking on me,” Chloé moaned petulantly. “Nothing I do is ever good enough for her.”

“Chloé is extremely talented,” Madame continued, as if Chloé had not spoken. “But she lacks respect, and above all, she lacks _focus_. I will not apologise for treating her as I do my other danseurs.”

“You do realise, Madame, that I have had people fired for less disrespect than you are giving me now?”

 “You wish to intimidate me, monsieur,” Madame’s voice rang clear and steady. “But I will not lie down for your little princess to walk over me in her Prada heels. Fire me or no, I will continue as I have done.”

“ _Daddy._ ”

“If you want your daughter to be the best, _let me do my job,_ ” she said quietly. “I promise I will make her shine as Coppélia, far greater than any jewel.”

There was a long stretch of silence. Not even Chloé broke it to whine. Then Mari heard him say gravely, “Alright Madame, as you wish.”

Mari smiled to herself. Ten points to Madame.

A sudden noise broke her from her revere. She startled. She had been concentrating so completely on the voices behind the door that she hadn’t paid any attention to her surroundings. She should probably move though. Best not to be caught snooping in front of Mr. Bourgeois’ office door. Then she heard it – a low curse.

Her skin prickling with goose-bumps, Mari forced herself to think of who else would be inside the house. No one, that’s who her mind came up with. Security was stationed outside the perimeter, everyone else was behind the office, and that did _not_ sound like Sabrina. So…who was around the corner? Mari swallowed, and hitched her bags higher on her shoulder and set off to investigate.

Tapping her way lightly down the hallway, she peered around the corner. The hallway was dark down here, and for a moment she was confused. The only thing this far into the Bourgeois house was the family safe. Why would anyone be down here?

Then a shadow moved in the darkness.

Mari gasped. She didn’t realise she had dropped her bags until she heard the plastic crinkle – all those layers she’d swathed Swanhilda’s two peasant dresses in, to protect them from the subway – and the shadow heard it to. Or not a shadow. Because shadows didn’t move that fast. One moment it was crouched beside the Bourgeois safe, the next it was storming towards her, grabbing her by the neck before she could take a step back. Her head reeled as she was slammed against the wall. One hand pinned her hands above her head. The other clamped itself over her mouth. A little scream of terror bubbled up by died in her throat.

“Well, well, little lady,” he purred, in a voice low and husky. It raised the hair on the back of her neck. _Dangerous,_ her mind screamed. “What do we have here?”

He couldn’t have expected her to answer him, not with his hand clamped over her mouth like a vice. But he grinned anyway. In the darkness of the hallway, he was just a lithe figure clad in black, and Mari’s mind was running a mile a minute over every story of the bad things that lived in the shadows. Then she blinked. As her eyes adjusted to the gloom, she realised that his smile was painted on. He wore a bandana across the lower half of his face split with a Cheshire grin. With his hood pulled low, it was the only feature she could properly see. She shuddered.

The weight of that grinning mask was _feral._

Still pining her hands in place, he shifted backwards to look her up and down. She might not be able to see him, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t see her. She knew what he’d see: blue-black hair in a messy bun, casual clothes, frightened blue eyes. Just a scared little girl. Not a threat.

“…Marinette Dupain-Cheng?”

Her blood ran cold. He knew her. How did he know her? How did he know – she writhed under his grip, starting to panic. There was something so violent about being silenced like this. He wasn’t really hurting her – only her shoulders a little from being pinned by his ferocious grip – but her brain was screaming that she couldn’t get enough air. She forced herself to breathe through her nose. But her chest was rising and falling in sharp, violent bursts.

He had claws on the end of his gloves. Oh God he had _claws_ –

Something about his stance shifted, and then his grip was softening, his hands releasing her wrists. Her shoulders cried out in relief. He lifted his hand from her mouth at the same time as he raised a clawed finger to his lips. _Don’t scream._ She got the message loud and clear.

“How do you know my name?” she asked, once she could do more than gasp in shaky breaths.

“I know a lot of things,” he whispered. “I know you work for Gabriel Agreste. I know your parents own a bakery. And I know you love them very much.”

And suddenly, she couldn’t breathe again. This time he didn’t need to use his claws, she was choking on her own fear. He leaned in and she felt a cold, distant feeling settle in just below her ribcage.

“If you love them so much,” his breath tickled her ear, “I suggest you don’t tell anyone about our little encounter.”

His voice was barely more than a whisper, but so much more than a promise.

He moved backwards, and the sudden space between them made her dizzy. From relief. From the last dregs of adrenaline that she could feel fading. From the knowledge that after this she could go home and hug her parents and not have to think about shadows or Cheshire smiles.

“Well, that’s enough _chatting_ for now,” he said, tone suddenly light. And God, did he just _wink_ at her?

She sank to the floor to gather up her fallen bags and when she looked up, he was gone. Already vanished into back into the shadows. It was a long time before she could push herself off the floor. Even longer before her hands stopped shaking. They were still tremoring when she made her escape, telling Sabrina to let Chloe know something had come up, when the PA asked why Mari was leaving in such a hurry. She was in a hurry alright.

She had a feeling she’d just met Chat Noir.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, so everything I know about ballet comes from the five minutes of ballet I did as a kid and everything good old Uncle Google has been able to teach me. If you see anything that is so terribly, awfully, completely wrong please let me know. Otherwise, let’s just go with ‘this is fiction' and roll with it. Drop me a kudo or a comment if you liked it, see you next chapter... ;)
> 
> P.S. If you want to listen to the snazzy dazzy Mazurka, you can find that [here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8Sb7gp98wAc).  
> And if you want to be impressed by hot danseurs *ahem* by ballet in general, you can find that [here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Gf0NX8Mqohk).


	2. The Purrfect Crime

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And I give you chapter two! AKA: Alya/Mari brotp moments, Chloé being a lil bitch, and some lovely, fluffy Marinette/Adrien action. Enjoy ;)

Coffee was life. Coffee was a gift. Coffee was currently the only thing sustaining Marinette’s will to live.

Apparently the rather loud moan she let out as she took her first sip made that abundantly clear.

“Do you need me to give you two a minute?” Alya asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Shh,” Mari said blearily, clutching her mug closer. “We’re having a moment.”

Alya leaned forward on her elbows, “Do you love it a latte?” She smirked.

“I cannot believe you made me get up this early to have coffee with you, and my only reward is _terrible jokes._ ”

“I can’t believe this was the only time you had a break in your schedule longer than five minutes.”

“What can I say? Opening night is next Friday, and I have two dozen costumes to finalise. I’m pretty popular right now. The theatre loves me long time.”

“Oh my god that doesn’t even make sense.”

“That would be because my _brain_ doesn’t _function_ before six-thirty in the morning.”

Alya rolled her eyes and good-naturedly titled Mari’s chin to take another sip. A that sip turned into a long slug, and made Mari let out a contented sigh. It was still dark out, and she needed to be in the theatre in half an hour; coffee in this situation was a necessity. Mari would be the first to admit she was pretty damn happy with her life – happy to be working for the most prestigious ballet company in Paris, happy to be an apprentice to Gabriel Agreste – but she might just be a little bit happier once opening night was out of the way. She’d been living in a constant state of exhaustion lately that rivalled even her days at ENSATT, and she was quite looking forward to the moment the costumes were all finalised, and she could just sit back and enjoy the show.

Once her coffee had fuelled her with enough energy to fully open her eyes, she leaned forward and made grabby hands at Alya’s Danish.

“Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t realise you were the boss of me.” Alya said, but broke off a piece of Danish for her anyway.

“Would you rather tell me about how you’re the boss of Nino?” she asked demurely.

Alya made an innocent face that lasted about two seconds, before her face broke into a sly grin. “We’ve met up twice this week for coffee, and we’re going for dinner on Thursday,” she sighed blissfully. “Help, Mari, I think I’m in love.”

“He is pretty great,” Mari smiled, nibbling her Danish.

“Not just great, he’s amazing!” she gushed. “He’s so talented, and funny, and the way he makes music is practically pornographic.”

“That better not be a euphemism-”

Alya threw a piece of Danish at her. Which Mari promptly ate.

“He’s just so – so –” She made a squealing noise that Mari’s caffeine-addled brain chose to interpret as delight.

“Should I be clearing my schedule for a June wedding?”

Alya rolled her eyes. “Please. A girl’s got to play hard to get.” She took a sip of her coffee. “I was thinking July?”

Mari gave a startled laugh.

After a slight pause, Alya asked softly, “So…you’re okay with us, right?” Mari must have been one hell of a confused face because Alya hurried to explain. “Nino mentioned you two had dated once, and I just wanted to check – you know, girl code and all – I mean – there weren’t any, uh, _feelings_ were there?”

Mari held up a hand. “Oh my God, stop talking.” She fixed Alya with a very serious look. “ _No._ God no. I mean, he’s great and all – no offense – but we only went on one date and that was years ago. We spent the entire time competing to see who could do a better monkey impression.”

 “And?”

Mari snorted. “And I won, clearly.” She took an indignant sip of her latte.

Alya rolled her eyes. Hard. “I mean… _and?_ ”

Mari rolled her eyes right back. “ _And_ there was most definitely no spark. We’ve kind of stayed friends, yeah, but that’s it. No lingering regrets, no interest whatsoever, consider the girl code upheld. You and Nino have my blessing.”

“Good,” Alya smiled gently.

Mari hid her own smile by checking her watch. They still had some time. “Doesn’t it seem funny to you that every time we meet up, we never end up finishing that interview?”

“Please,” Alya said. “Interview or no, you are my anchor amidst the craziness and drama that is the ballet world. I need you to keep me centred…and give me all the inside goss.”

Mari rolled her eyes. “Like I would know anything.” She thought about it a moment. This might be the perfect opportunity. “…Actually, scratch that. What do you want to know?”

Alya looked suspicious, but it was quickly overridden by her love of a good story. “Okay, for one, what’s the deal with the _Paul Saint Peter Collective_? They’re all I ever hear about, but no one will give me the full deets.”

“They’re sponsoring the show,” Mari said. “You know their group is one of the largest jewellery collectors in France?”

“Yes, Mari,” she rolled her eyes. “I was not, in fact, born yesterday.”

Mari smirked at that. “Well they’re ridiculously wealthy, and they also have access to some of the rarest pieces of jewellery in Europe. So, them sponsoring us? _Pretty big deal._ ”

“Has this got anything to do with why the date for opening night got pulled forward?”

“Yeah. One of the families who’s connected to the trust is lending us their favourite rubies. It’s this big promotional thing. Chloé will be wearing them when she dances as Coppélia, and you better believe that shot is going to be posters, billboards, and all over the _Paul Saint Peter_ website.”

 “But why the change in dates?”

“Aha!” Mari grinned. “This part I found out recently.” From exploiting Sabrina’s concern over why she ran off the other night, and using it to sate her own curiosity. Did that make her a bad person? Probably. But she could live with that. “Apparently the ruby is going to be in some exhibit for the ten most expensive jewels in Europe, so they had to move the dates of the show forward to accommodate.”

“Ten most expensive?”

“Well,” she rolled her eyes. “Most expensive considering they couldn’t get their hands on the Bourgeois family’s personal collection.”

“Hmm.”

“Now,” Mari leaned forward. “Tit-for-tat. Tell me what you know about Chat Noir?”

“The cat burglar?” Alya asked in surprise. “I didn’t realise you were interested in him.”

She shrugged, aiming for casual and hopefully settling for something less than completely-obsessed. “I’m a curious gal. And I _know_ you know more than anything I can find on the internet.”

“Sure…okay,” she said, shrugging off the weirdness of Mari’s question. It was weird, they both knew it was weird, but God bless her, Alya ignored it anyway. “What do you want to know?”

“Everything you got. Hit me with it.”

“Well, his first burglary was six years ago-”

“ _Six years?_ How the hell did they manage to keep it out of the media for so long?”

“Because they only started picking up around six months ago, and it took them forever to realise the burglaries were all by the same guy,” Alya said. “Big heists like that, they usually take months to organise and we’re talking about teams executing them. Of course they didn’t think it was just one dude on his own, knocking down heist after heist.”

“So, how’d they figure it out?”

“They caught him on security footage at the Favreau estate about a month ago. The description matched partial witness statements from two of the other burglaries, and they started piecing it together from there.”

“This guy is crazy,” Mari muttered.

“Yup,” Alya said, popping the ‘p’. “There hasn’t been any violence linked to him yet, but it’s only a matter of time. Someone comes home early, catches him in the act, there’s a struggle…accidents happen. This guy is most certainly not someone you want to meet in a dark alley.”

Or a dark hallway.

Mari hadn’t told anyone about her meeting with Chat Noir. She didn’t know why. Okay so she knew why, but she loved her parents and she wanted them to say un-clawed and off the radar of Paris’ favourite psycho thief, thank you very much. The way Chat Noir had threatened them without really threatening them…it made the hair stand up on the back of her neck. She probably should have told the police. Instead she’d gone home and cuddled with her parents in front of the TV until it was late enough to go hide under her covers and have a mild panic attack. _Real brave Mari, not cowardly at all,_ she thought. But there was something about the way he’d said her name that made her heart clench. He knew her. He knew her by name. And that was a seriously scary thought.

There’d been no mention of a break-in from the Bourgeoises, or indication that anything was taken. So clearly, Chat Noir hadn’t gotten what he’d come for. And Mari remained silent.

“Marinette? Hello? Anyone there?”

Mari blinked to see Alya waving a hand in front of her face.

“Oh, sorry. What were you saying?”

Alya shot her a look. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah, yeah, fine. Just tired. Now what were you saying?”

Alya didn’t look convinced, but continued, “I was _saying,_ if you really want-”

But Mari never did find out what Alya was saying, because that was when Nino blew in and pulled them to their feet. “No time for chat girls,” he said, slipping am arm through each of their elbows. “Let’s go, let’s go.”

“Who lit a fire under your tail?” Alya demanded, as Mari hastily downed the rest of her coffee before Nino started pulling them out the door.

“No time to explain. We need to be at theatre _five minutes ago._ ”

Mari could tell Alya wanted to argue, but she also wanted to know what was going on. And nothing drove Alya quite like curiosity did. So, they allowed Nino to quick-march them back to the theatre. It wasn’t far, and so it wasn’t long before they were at the Palais Garnier, taking the steps two at a time.

Inside, the theatre was in chaos.

Not the pleasant kind of chaos. Not the kind that usually gave Mari warm, fuzzy feelings of contentment (and yes, that probably made her a terrible person). For a start, people were yelling, not moving. The dancers were gossiping anxiously, the stage-hands had stopped their work, and at the centre of it all Madame Bustier, Mr. Bourgeois, and a group of Important Looking people were arguing loudly. Very loudly. She sidled up to one of the stage-hands.

“What’s going on?” she asked Alix.

“Someone stole the rubies the Diamont family were supposed to be lending us,” Alix whispered.

“ _What?_ ”

“Yup,” she continued delightedly. “And now they’re too freaked out to let any of their other jewels out of their sight.”

Mari glanced at Alya, who was unabashedly soaking up the gossip like a sponge. Then at Nino, who made an ‘I told you we needed to get here’ face.

“Then what’s going to happen to the production?” Mari asked. “Those jewels – oh shit, the sponsorship…”

“The _Paul Saint Peter Collective_ have withdrawn their sponsorship,” Alix said, with far too much schadenfreude.

“ _Oh shit_.”

She even heard Alya blow out a long breath at that.

Alix shook her head. “This is what they get for relying so heavily on one sponsor, and letting themselves be tied up in a contract that relies on jewels for their publicity. A contract the _Paul Saint Peter Collective_ can wiggle out of apparently. They’ve been on the phone to them all morning, but they won’t budge. They think we’re unlucky.”

Mari pinched the bridge of her nose between her fingers. “We’re less than a week from opening night. We need that money. How are we supposed to run show without it?”

Apparently, she wasn’t the only one wondering.

“ _Daddy!_ ”

Their gazes snapped to the sight of a familiar figure striding up the aisle.

“Here we go,” Nino muttered.

“Sweetheart, please,” Mr. Bourgeois held up his hands to placate his daughter. “I’m a bit busy right now-”

“You can’t cancel _Coppélia!_ ” she cried. “This is going to be my big moment! You can’t do this to me!”

“Chloé,” Madame Bustier snapped. “This affects more than just yourself. Kindly let us handle this-”

They saw Adrien jog up lightly behind her. He rested a reassuring hand on Chloé’s shoulder.

“So, you don’t have the rubies – just get some more!” she snapped. “It can’t be that hard to find someone else with jewels so _Paul Saint Peter_ will sponsor us!”

“Come on Chloé,” Adrien said, trying to calm her. “It’s not like we know anyone with rubies just lying around.”

Her eyes widened. After a pregnant pause she turned her gaze on Mr. Bourgeois. Mari knew that gaze. Chloé wanted something. And what Chloé wanted, she usually got.

“Daddy…”

He seemed to know it too. “Oh no. Oh no, Chloé. _Definitely_ not.”

“…What about our rubies?” she asked.

Everyone in the room seemed to perk up a little at that. Adrien looked like he could have bitten off his own tongue.

“Le Miraculeux Rubies are not just something you hand around, Chloé,” he hissed, eyes darting back and forth. “They haven’t been out of the vault in ten years.”

“Don’t you want me to play Coppélia?” she demanded.

“Of course, sweetheart-”

“This could be the biggest moment of my career!” she continued. “Are you really going to destroy this for me just because you wanted to be selfish?”

“Chloé…” but it weak. He was caving. They could all hear it.

“You have the best security team in Paris,” Chloé wheedled. She sensed blood in the water and her tone turned sweet and persuasive to match. “The rubies will be perfectly safe. And you’ll have made my dreams come true.”

She was possibly laying it on a little thick there, but she did that thing where she gazed up at him with her big blue eyes and batted her eyelashes and they all knew he was a goner. His shoulders slumped and he turned to Madame Bustier. Madame had, very wisely, remained silent during the exchange, but now she stepped forward smoothly to pick up where Chloé left off.

“If you were interested in very generously offering us the loan of your rubies, I can assure you every precaution and security measure would be taken to ensure they were safe,” she said smoothly.

“They had better be,” he snapped. “I’m only doing this for my daughter.”

“Of course, Mr. Bourgeois,” she said easily.

“Come,” he nodded sharply. “I think we had better go get _Paul Saint Peter_ on the line and renegotiate the terms of our contract.” His eyes flitted around the room. “ _Privately_ ,” he snapped.

The whole room watched them filter out, still holding their breath, before the gossip began to buzz at once. Alya elbowed Mari in her ribs and she grinned at her.

They were back in business.

~

After the morning they’d had, Mari thought nothing could surprise her. Except she was wrong. Nothing could surprise her except maybe Adrien Agreste sauntering over between sets.

“Hey Marinette,” he smiled.

He may have said her name but she couldn’t help glance over her shoulder to see if he was talking to someone else. As if there was another Marinette hanging around here somewhere. She glanced back at him.

“Um, hi?”

“How’s it going?” he leaned against the chair next to her like he belonged there. Like this was something they did.

She scrunched up her nose in confusion. “Isn’t your father taking care of your costumes?”

“Uh, yeah? I just wanted to say hi,” he scratched the back of his neck with an endearing embarrassment.

She stared at him. “I wasn’t aware you knew my name.”

He frowned. “You work for my father.”

“I know. We’ve even spoken to each other,” she raised a brow. “Still didn’t think you knew my name.”

He did look slightly abashed at that, so she was probably half-right. Or had been right at a point recently. But he shrugged it off and smirked. “I know a lot of things.”

_I know a lot of things._

She shivered, and all of a sudden she was right back there with Chat Noir’s talons over her mouth, and no one to hear her scream.

She must have gasped or something, because suddenly Adrien was there, leaning forward into her space, staring at her worriedly. “You okay?”

She nodded. “Yeah. Yeah – I’m just-”

“Hurt,” he breathed.

“Hmm?”

She saw his eyes were trained on the small cut on her cheek. A little farewell gift from where Chat Noir’s claws had just nicked the skin. Adrien reached his arm out as if to touch, and stopped himself a second later.

“I’m fine,” she said quickly.

Because what else was she supposed to say? He sounded almost _concerned_ and Adrien Agreste was not a person she was used to sounding concerned. She was used to years of him answering the door and grunting at her before calling to his father that the little assistant was there. He wasn’t supposed to be concerned.

“I’ll make sure you get ointment for that,” he continued, because clearly, she was on an episode of the body-snatchers, and the real Adrien had left the premises.

“Adri-kins,” came a voice.

Mari could barely contain her delight.

“I gotta go,” she said, but not fast enough to miss the foul look Chloé shot her.

She didn’t think-? Oh, she _did._ Oh shit. Like Mari needed any more reasons for Chloé to dislike her. Just in case she one more, she paused in the corner of the doorway, still within ear reach. Because she was a bad person, and weak, and really, just dang curious about what Chloé could be saying about her behind her back.

“What was she bugging you about?” Chloé asked, wrapping an arm through his.

“Marinette?”

Chloé rolled her eyes. “I forget you haven’t been here forever. Honestly though, do steer clear of the rabble. Just because she wasn’t good enough for ballet doesn’t mean she won’t try and use you to work her way up.”

“What do you mean? Did Marinette use to do ballet?”

Chloé looked at him in surprise. “You didn’t know?” She sneered. “Marinette and I attended the Academy together. But she ended up a seamstress. I didn’t.”

Right, so eavesdropping, not good. Lesson learned. Mari decided she didn’t want to stick around to hear any more of their derision, or their pity.

They had no idea what they were talking about.

~

“Marinette!” her mother called.

Mari stuck her head out of the loft. “I’m busy mom!”

With opening night closing in and Chloé still fobbing her off, she’d taken the little princess’ advice when she’s snapped ‘we’re the same size, just do it yourself. I need to go shopping.’ Not the shopping part obviously. Mari had accepted by this stage in the game she had no life. But she was currently wearing Chloé’s dress and marking the spots that needed to be brought in with dissolvable thread. Fingers crossed she was right.

“There’s a boy here to see you!” her mom called back. “An…Adrien Agreste? I think he’s that nice boy whose father you work for-”

Mari was already ripping the costume off (read: gently, with speed) and throwing on her jeans and t-shirt. She managed to trip trying to get her legs in the right holes and hit the floor with a loud thud. She hoped they hadn’t heard. Who was she kidding? They totally heard.

She wrestled the loft door open and slid down the stairs fireman style, praying it wasn’t too late. But it was. Adrien was already in the house. Ugh.

“I came to drop something off for my father,” he explained, with a smirk. He’d definitely heard.

Double ugh.

“Thanks,” Mari said politely, accepting the bag he offered her.

One the inside, her mind was racing. Because in all the time she’d worked for Gabriel, Adrien had never had a reason to visit her home. Not one. She hadn’t even realised he knew where she _lived._ But there was no way to get around the fact that he was in her home, in her space, contaminating it with his attractiveness just by standing there, smirking, in his stupid designer jeans and his Calvin Klein t-shirt and his fancy scarf which Mari very much wanted to steal. And she was in a baggy t-shirt and jeans she was beginning to fear she’d put on inside out.

She looked inside the bag. “Wait – is this one of your costumes?”

_Oh God. Not another one._

“Yeah.” He shrugged. “My dad wanted you to finish it off for him.”

“Doesn’t Gabriel usually insist on dealing with all your costumes personally?” she asked, confused. She made the mistake of glancing at her parents. They were watching the two of them with very close interest.

“He’s pressed for time,” he said. Another shrug. “There’s a lot to do.”

“Don’t I know it,” Mari muttered.

She was all set to thank and show him out, but apparently her parents had other ideas.

“Would you like some tea, Adrien?” her mother asked. She elbowed her husband.

“Or some apple Danishes?” he offered quickly. “We have some freshly baked.”

And apparently, he’d roofied her parents. They were making that _face_ , the one that said she was going to get teased so hard about this later. Unfair, since she wasn’t getting an action to justify the teasing.

“Danishes?” Adrien asked, and oh boy, Mari was not prepared for level of delight his face lit up with. Then he faltered. “Oh, I probably shouldn’t. I have to watch what I eat…”

“Come now, one won’t kill you,” her dad winked.

“Um…I guess – I guess one might be alright.”

“Excellent!” her dad crowed. He nudged Adrien in the ribs, unintentionally knocking him into Mari. “I was always able to convince Mari back in the day, even though she’d hate me for it later. Good to see I haven’t lost me knack!”

Mari sighed. Loudly.

“Why don’t we bring them up in a few minutes?” her mom asked slyly. “I’m sure you kids have costume things to work on.”

“ _Mom_ ,” Mari hissed. “I’m sure Adrien doesn’t – wait-” she turned to Adrien. “Have you had your final fitting?”

“Oh. No,” Adrien said, still distracted by the thought of pastries. “He said you’d take care of it.”

_Of course he did._

She smothered a sigh. “Okay, I guess we can do that now then. Since you’re here.”

He shrugged. “Alright.”

“Follow me.” She turned on her heel and did her best to pretend this wasn’t happening.

But it was very hard to pretend she wasn’t leading Adrien frickin Agreste up to her bedroom when he was following her up the stairs so closely. She could feel the warmth radiating from him, the scent of his cologne, the sound of his breathing. Every instinct she had was screaming: _Boy alert! Boy alert!_ Not that she saw him as a boy. Well okay, obviously he was _male_ but she didn’t see him in _that_ way. Firstly, he was handsome and he knew it. A definite turn-off. Secondly, he hadn’t seemed to realise she existed until yesterday morning. Which, yeah, also a turn-off. There would have been something pretty sad about fantasising over someone who you were pretty sure didn’t know your name. Except now, apparently, he did know her name, and he did know she existed. She wasn’t sure what had changed.

She was sure however, that there was no way to avoid him secretly checking out her room. When she got to the top of the stairs she stood aside and waved her hand over the space to save him the trouble. And if she also used the distraction to check her pants weren’t inside out, so what? She already knew what he’d see. He’d take one look at the pink walls covered in Coco Chanel and Zhang Na posters, the flowery cushions, the ballerina music box, and he’d see a little girl’s room. She eyed him challengingly. To her surprise, he didn’t comment. Instead he glanced over and raised a sultry eyebrow.

“Where do you want me?”

She rolled her eyes. “Over here.” She gestured to the middle of the floor, looking him up and down. He was tall and lithe, with a dancer’s powerful frame. Nothing out of the ordinary, but everything about him was extraordinary. She swallowed, throat dry. “Okay, I’ll just take your measurements.”

He looked skyward and sighed. “My dad already took them.”

“And did you bring them with you?” she challenged, grabbing her measuring tape from her sewing box.

“…No.”

“Then shut up and do as I say,” she said pleasantly. She nodded for him to hold his arms out and he did.

“Bossy.”

“I have to be,” she muttered, wrapping the tape around his chest. “I work with Chloé.”

She felt his chest moving under her fingers and glanced up. He was laughing. For some reason that made a little knot of tension release inside her chest. Which wasn’t good, because he was warm under her fingers and he smelled even better up close. She finished taking his measurements as quickly as possible.

“Here we are,” her dad called, appearing at the stairs to set a tray on the floor.

“Thanks dad!” and “Thank you Mr. Dupain-Cheng!” they chorused. He just hummed to himself and closed the loft-door behind him.

Mari released Adrien to jot down his measurements at her desk, and Adrien gave up all pretence at indifference towards the pastries the moment her back was turned. She didn’t blame him. They smelled intoxicating even from here. She peeked over to see him devouring one ravenously and when he caught her looking, he swallowed guiltily. Apparently said guilt was stomped down fast though, because he _sauntered_ over to hand her one. They were the ones her dad made with the braided edges and topped with icing and shaved pecan. She rolled her eyes but bit into it happily. That was definitely one thing she didn’t miss about dancing professionally: always watching what you ate. Because practicing ballet while growing up in a French bakery? _Torture._

Adrien leaned back against the desk, his eyes flicking to her while he licked icing off his fingers. “So, you still live at home?”

“There it is,” she muttered.

“There’s what?”

“The judgement I’ve been waiting for.”

He held his hands up in defence. “I didn’t mean anything by it, just wondering is all.”

“Yes, I live at home,” she said stiffly. “It’s cheaper, more convenient for the moment at least, and I like my parents.”

He shrugged. “Fair enough.”

She hesitated, before asking curiously, “What about you?”

He laughed humourlessly. “I didn’t even make it to eighteen before I moved out.”

“That’s right, I heard spent time in England.”

He nodded stiffly, but didn’t seem inclined to elaborate. Time to change the subject, she decided.

“I only moved to Paris when I was eight,” she said casually. “My dad’s a native, but he met my mom when she was over here for a French baking course they were both taking. After it finished, he moved back with her to China.”

“How long was the baking course?” he asked, despite himself.

“Six weeks,” she admitted.

He laughed. “And that was enough for him to change countries?”

She grinned back at him. “What can I say? He’s a romantic.”

“So, why’d you come back?”

She leaned back in her seat. “They’d always talked about raising me partially there and partially here. But after my grandmother died, there was no reason to stay.” She glanced out the window and tried very hard to ignore the voice in her head reminding her she didn’t usually tell people about this.

“Do you miss it?” he asked softly.

“Sometimes,” she said. “But Paris is home now, and I expect it wouldn’t be the same.”

She suddenly felt desperately, achingly sad, thinking about Wenzhou with its busy port, and its mountains, and its temples. It all seemed so far away.

“No, probably not,” Adrien said brusquely. He pushed off from the desk and looked down at her challengingly. “Okay, are we doing this or what?”

She raised an eyebrow at him. “Not like that we’re not.”

“What?” he asked dumbly, with icing all over his face.

She sighed and got to her feet. Grabbing a wet-wipe from her drawer she put one hand on his shoulder to keep him still, and wiped at his face with the other. “You are such a messy eater,” she admonished. “I am _not_ letting you get the costumes dirty.”

Maybe she said it a little snappier than usual. But she was trying very hard to ignore the fact that he had changed the subject to distract her from her sudden attack of homesickness.

“Whatever, little lady.” He batted her hands away from him. “Let’s just get this over with.”

Then he started taking off his clothes and Marinette almost had a heart attack.

She grabbed his top to pull it back down – and oh God, she got a handful of ab. They were rock-solid. _Fuck._

“What are you doing?” she hissed.

He looked at her like she was an idiot. “I’m getting changed.”

“In _here_?” her face was on fire, she could feel it. Double fuck.

“Where else do you want me to do it? The balcony? The bakery, in front of your parents?”

“I-I-”

“Jeez, just turn around,” he snapped. Still blushing, she released him – and his drool-worthy abs – and did as he said. “Prude,” he muttered.

“Hey!” she whipped round to glare at him just as he took his shirt off.

And it was very different seeing Adrien’s chest when she had just experienced what it felt like first-hand. He was all golden-skin and lithe muscle and – and looking right at her. Fuck times infinity. She looked away so fast she might have gotten whiplash, and folded her arms over her chest. As if that could in any way lessen her embarrassment. As if she wasn’t entirely conscious of the fact that somewhere behind her Adrien fucking Agreste was dropping his pants to her bedroom floor. Her room would never be the same. Alya would have a field day. Chloé would have a coronary. Well. She supposed it could be worse. He could be dropping her pants to her bedroom floor.

As soon as the though crossed her mind she turned the same shade of crimson as the Coppélia dress lying on her bed. She shut the thought down _fast_. Turns all perceptions of Adrien off. From now on, he was just another mannequin. A very tall, soft, warm mannequin that smelled deliciously of cologne and pastries.

With careful precision she walked to the bed and straightened up Chloé’s dress from where she had thrown it. Her hands were trembling slightly, but she packed it away into its casing and hung it on her rack. All while careful not to turn around.

_Deep breaths, Marinette. You can do this._

“Okay, it’s safe to turn around.”

“Is it?”

“Yes, you dummy. Sheesh.”

She peeked over her shoulder, just a tiny bit.

“No wait!” he cried.

She shrieked and threw her hands over her face. She didn’t want to know what she might have seen. God, seeing his chest was bad enough, if she’d had to see – then a second later the sound of his laughter hit her in full force. She dropped her hands a smidge, and then entirely. Adrien was fully dressed and bent double laughing at her.

“You should have seen your _face_ ,” he wheezed.

“Shut up,” she snapped, grabbing her things from her sewing box. “You do not want to piss off the girl currently in possession of multiple sharp objects.”

He just kept laughing at her, and she tried to tell herself she was blushing with embarrassment and not because in costume, Adrien looked like a prince.

“Come on, you deserved that.”

She ignored him and fastened her on her wrist-pincushion.

Still grinning, Adrien nodded his head at it. “Sexy.” He teased.

“I don’t want to hear that from _you_ ,” she snapped. And then promptly wished she could bit off her own tongue.

His grin widened. “Oh, so you think I’m sexy.”

“T-That’s not what I said.”

“It’s okay,” he shrugged. “I know I’m amazing.”

“And so modest too,” she muttered.

Even steadfastly ignoring him, she could _feel_ him quietly laughing at her. She blushed, because she was female, and unfortunately, fallible. Then she squared her shoulders, pulled his arms up straight, and went to work poking and prodding him like a professional. Because she was female, and by God would she get shit done. He took it well, being treated like a rag-doll as she pushed and pulled him into different positions to make her last-minute adjustments. He must be used to it by now. She didn’t think about that though. She consulted her measurements and thought about her stitching.  Because if she was concentrating on the pull of the fabric that meant she wasn’t concentrating on the fact that she had Adrien Agreste in her bedroom, at her mercy.

Finally, he broke the silence to ask, “I heard you used to dance, is that true?”

She followed his gaze and found him staring rather intently at a pair of old ballet shoes hanging from the door to the balcony.

“Yes,” she said, reaching on tippy-toes to fiddle with his collar. “I attended the Academy with Chloé, actually.”

He already knew that of course, but he didn’t know she knew he knew.

“Oh?” he asked, so casually that if she hadn’t overheard his conversation with Chloé, she would have believed he’d never thought of it before.

“Yeah, but you would have been in England at the time, so I’m not surprised you didn’t know.”

Though he could have found out easily enough by asking Chloé, or his father, or heck, this thing called _Google._ Just another reminder that she’d never warranted his interest before this week.

“Why’d you stop?”

She paused with her hands on the back of his collar, and met his gaze. “I found something I loved more,” she said honestly.

His inclined his head slightly, gentle invitation to continue.

“I loved dancing. I still do,” she said stiffly. “I practice regularly, when I have the time. I didn’t stop because I wasn’t good at it,” she added quickly, remembering Chloé’s insinuations. Once upon a time she’d been far better than Chloé, which was why the little minx had said it. “It’s just – it different.”

“What is?” he asked gently.

She thought about it. Thought about having to wake up early, adhere to a diet that was more spartan than strict, about the hours upon hours of plies and jumps and arcing like swans, about having to me mentally and physically strong every second, as well as passionate and dedicated and something _more._ There had been so many talented youths in the Academy, but there were so few professional jobs in the professional ballet career. Everyone had to give their all, and then give more, always more. And Mari had loved it. More than loved it, she’d _lived for it_. She’d been one of the ones who made it professionally, and the first time she set danced across the stage of the Palais Garnier with nearly two thousand people watching her had been the happiest of her life.

She let her hands trail down from Adrien’s neck until they were fiddling with fabric and pins, pretending to be helpful. She’d loved it, yes. But she thought of the feel of gossamer and tulle under her fingertips, of the late nights in the quiet of the Bastille sewing workshops, of the feel of a pencil in her hand and she sketched beauty across a page.

She shrugged. “I guess I’m just better at creating beauty than being beauty.”

He snorted. “Somehow I doubt that. But if that’s what you love, fair enough,” he said simply. And that was that.

If only everyone were so easy to convince.

She finished up his costume in silence. Because honestly? She wasn’t sure what more was safe to say. For someone she’d barely talked to before, Adrien had worked his way under her skin pretty darn fast. He didn’t say much either, but made one or two quips that proved him just as arrogant as ever. So, all was right with the universe. He did cave however, and let her parents guilt-trip him into taking another Danish for the road, so Mari thought he couldn’t be all bad. Her palms were sweating and her heart was hammering as her parents fussed over him and she couldn’t quite look him in the eye when she said goodbye.

Just before he slipped out of the apartment though, he slipped something into her hand. She looked down. Ointment. He’d gotten her ointment.

 _All bad?_ She thought. Who was she kidding?

She was the one who had it bad.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much to everyone who left comments and kudos on the first chapter! Your support has been amazing!  
> And for anyone interested, check out the [To Catch a Cat Burglar pinterest board](https://www.pinterest.nz/chocgirlnz/to-catch-a-cat-burglar/) I made for inspiration (and procrastination). 


	3. A Cat-astrophic Evening

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Woo, this just reached 100 kudos!!! Thank you guys so much for all the support, I hope you like the next chapter!

“Thanks again for giving me a ride,” Mari said, shifting awkwardly in her seat across from Gabriel and Natalie.

“No trouble at all,” Gabriel said politely.

Which might have been true for him, but she was finding this much more awkward now that she had seen his son shirtless. Although, she supposed it would have been even more awkward if his son were in the car with them. When she’d asked – politely enquired, really – if Adrien would be joining them, Gabriel had said apparently, he was too cool to hang out with the oldies and would see them there. Which was fine. It wasn’t like she was excited to see him or anything.

“That’s a lovely dress you’re wearing,” Natalie added, as they turned down the next street. “Which designer is it?”

“I made it, actually,” Mari said, a little shyly. She was proud of her dress but it was one she’d made years ago, back when she was studying. Good, but certainly not at the height of her skills, and nowhere near Gabriel’s.

But he cast his gaze over it with a designer’s appreciative eye. “It’s nice,” he said. “Taken from the Cheongsam style?”

She nodded. “I added a flared skirt and some traditional Wenzhou styling in the detailing, but yes.”

They talked some more about fashion and about Wenzhou being the birthplace of Chinese opera, and by the time they arrived at the venue, Mari had almost forgotten to be nervous. Then the car rolled to a stop and her anxiety reappeared in full force. Ah yes, the event. The event which she had not wanted to go to. The event she, a humble seamstress, was being forced to attend at Gabriel’s insistence. The event at which there would be all sorts of upper-class politics at work, schmoozing for publicity, and _mingling_. But she steeled herself as the chauffeur came around to open the door and – oh God were those _cameras?_

Natalie must have seen her expression because she reached out to pat her hand. “It’s alright,” and reassure her. “You’re with us.”

Suddenly Mari was feeling very grateful for the lift. Because when the doors opened it looked like every paparazzo and his grandmother was standing between them and the entrance to the Grand Theodore Hotel. She certainly wouldn’t have been able to get through as easily without a chauffeur who doubled as a body-guard. And get through they did. Gabriel and Natalie gracefully, with practiced ease, and Mari slightly more anxiously, but with most of her dignity intact. By the time she collapsed into the elevator that would take them to the hotel function rooms, she was ready to go home to bed. Unfortunately, that was not in the cards.

“Adrien says he delivered his outfit to you?” Gabriel asked as the elevator took them up.

“Uh, yes.” And they were straight back into awkward-territory.

_Don’t think about Adrien’s abs. Don’t think about Adrien’s abs. Don’t think-_

“I finished off the last-minute adjustments,” she continued hastily, because she clearly needed to stop thinking. Truthfully, she would have been terrified to face Gabriel again before getting that work completed.

“Good,” Gabriel said. The doors opened with a _ding._ “I look forward to seeing your work on opening night.”

He exited the elevator with a dramatic flourish, Natalie at his shoulder. Mari was slightly jealous. She wondered if she’d ever be able to do that. _Probably not_ , she thought, finally leaving the safety of the elevator. Inside, the party was just as bad as she’d expected. It was a sea of intimidatingly fancy-looking folks, and Mari had no clue how to introduce herself into conversation. Especially not with Gabriel and Natalie gone. The party was mainly a publicity gig to celebrate _Coppélia_ opening in a few nights, though with Gabriel Agreste designing the costumes and the Bourgeois family loaning the jewels, she wondered how much more publicity they really needed. The theft of the Diamont family jewels had only fanned the media frenzy. Still, the danseurs were allowed to come, to mingle and meet their sponsors. No alcohol for them of course, and they still had their strict diet to follow, but it was a fun night to blow off steam all the same.

“Mari!”

She perked up at the sound of her name and spotted Alya waving her over, dressed in an electric wrap dress in navy and teal that was a veritable feast for the eyes. Mari was sure Nino would agree. She hurried past the security guards, and let herself be hugged and kissed and generally cooed over by Alya.

“ _Guuurl_ you look amazing!” she exclaimed. “Where’d you get your dress?”

“I made it,” Mari said, hoping she wasn’t going to have to repeat herself all night.

“You made it? What?” Alya teased. “You didn’t feel like you had enough sewing this week?”

Mari rolled her eyes. “You look beautiful by the way.”

Alya preened obligingly. “Thanks. Now come on, Nino’s thing is about to start.”

She grabbed Mari’s hand and started dragging her through the crowd. As if on cue, the lights began to dim and the crowd began to hush. Mari spotted more security guards stationed at the exits, but before she could ask Alya about them, a voice came on over the overhead.

“Ladies and gentlemen, if I may have your attention, we have a little treat for you this evening…”

They made it to the other side of the room just in time for a spotlight to come on over where their favourite composer was seated at a grand piano. Nino was wearing a peacock blue suit with a white shirt and paisley tie. He caught sight of them as Alya negotiated their way to the front of the crowd, and winked.

“For our rendition of _Coppélia_ we have several original melodies we are proud to present. One of these, we are lucky enough to have our musical director and composer performing here tonight,” the announcer said. “He will be performing _Coup de foudre._ ”

“Love at first sight,” Mari grinned, elbowing Alya in the ribs. “Were you his inspiration for this?”

Alya shushed her, but grinned along.

Nino half-smiled, and then he ran his fingers over the keys and led them seamlessly from silence into his world of music and melody. It was beautiful to watch. Even better to listen to. Nino played in a way that was entirely sensual, his whole body moving along to the beat. His shoulders flexed, head coming up, eyes closed, as he was pulled along by the melody. It was sweet and tender and exciting. Mari could barely tear her eyes away, but she glanced over to look at Alya. She looked like she’d just fallen in love a little more. A lot more.

When his melody came to an end, there was a moment of hushed silence before the crowd burst into applause. This time it was Mari that had to drag Alya over, her friend still struck dumb with emotion. Mari leaned against the piano, as Nino smiled up at them.

“Hello lovely ladies, aren’t I luck to be graced with your presence?”

Mari snorted. “Yes, you’re very smooth Mr. Composer.”

His smile widened. “How did you find it?”

“As if anyone could find that anything other than extraordinary,” Alya said irritably, and you’d have to really know her to realise she was trying to hide her embarrassment. She was practically blushing, and that was something Mari had never thought she’d see.

Nino seemed to realise it too, because his voice took on a sultry tone. “I’m always free for one-on-one piano lessons if you’re interested in the offer.”

Mari made a face. She couldn’t believe she was being forced to listen to this. Then again, flirting seemed as natural as breathing to Alya, and certainly snapped her out of her silent moment. The two of them were so smitten with each other it was disgusting. In fact, she was focused so heavily on how disgusted she was – and not jealous in the slightest – that she nearly jumped out of her skin when Adrien appeared at her side.

“That was a sensational performance,” he smiled, holding his hand out to Nino. “You should be proud.”

“I am,” Nino smiled, taking Adrien’s hand in a firm shake. “Are you a fan of the instrument?”

“I used to play some when I was younger, but mainly I just enjoy the music,” Adrien said as he leaned back. “How did you get into piano?”

Nino’s smile was wry. “Let’s just say, I had an unhealthy obsession with _Phantom of the Opera_ when I was younger and at the time piano lessons seemed the best outlet.”

“Then Gaston Leroux has served you well,” Adrien said, a quirk to his lips.

“Actually, I was thinking of the 2004 film. Something about the mix of organ music and electric guitars.” He clapped a hand dramatically over his heart. “Just gets me every time.”

The two of them laughed and Alya smirked at Mari. “Look at all this bromance. Revolting.”

Mari raised an eyebrow but managed to avoid mentioning the little display she and Nino had made not a minute earlier. She was close though. _So_ close.

“You said you used to play?” Nino asked, ignoring the two smirking girls.

“Was forced to play,” Adrien said dryly. He gestured to the seat. “Do you mind if I…?”

“Be my guest,” Nino grinned, budging over.

Adrien joined him at the piano, and they shared a look. Adrien raised his eyebrows mischievously – then burst into a rendition of something bouncy, light, and annoyingly familiar. Nino gave a startled laugh but he joined in a second later. The two of them played in harmony, fingers playfully running faster and faster over the keys. Halfway through the tune began to change, the pauses lengthen, the high notes sweeten, the complexity increase by leaps and bounds. Adrien followed suit until he was playing the compliments to the song. Mari couldn’t help but giggle when she realised. They were playing _Chopsticks._ Freaking _[Chopsticks](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QPzjHgMENrc)._ Alya was laughing too, but she took the opportunity while they were distracted to lean over and whisper to Mari.

“You do realise he clearly came over here to give himself an excuse to talk to you.”

Mari wrinkled her nose. “That’s ridiculous,” she whispered back. “He hasn’t even spoken to me.”

“I give it a minute, tops.”

Mari shook her head at her friend but used the excuse to look Adrien over in turn. He looked delectable as always. He was wearing a pale grey suit that had been brilliantly tailored to show off his broad shoulders and lean waist. And though he was sitting, she was sure it showed off his other _ass_ ets too. His hair had just gotten long enough for him to tie it back, the dark gold strands in a man-bun to keep them out of his face, and he was freshly shaven. Just how she liked him. _Let’s be honest,_ she thought to herself, _you’d like him even if he was wearing a trash bag and hadn’t shaved in weeks._

But that fell very clearly under the things she was Definitely Not Thinking About, and so she focused on Adrien and Nino’s duet. It tapered off with an adorable flourish and Adrien turned to Nino.

“So, it may have been a while since I played anything serious,” Adrien said with a straight face.

Nino was laughing so hard there were tears in his eyes.

“Hey,” Adrien added. “It was either this or _Music of the Night._ Count yourself lucky.”

“Oh, I do,” Nino held out a hand. “Nice playing with you man.”

“Thanks for letting me join you,” Adrien said with a catlike smile. His gaze drifted to Mari and she kept a very straight face.

“Ah, my replacement is here,” Nino nodded, getting to his feet. “Can’t have the talent sitting around all evening.”

Adrien got to his feet, straightening his suit, and watched while Nino and a young pianist did that bro thing where they clapped hands and shoulders. Mari thought it was weird. But whatever. Nino offered his arm to Alya, his eyes twinkling endearingly.

“Can I get you a drink, my lady?”

“You may,” she smiled, threading her arm through his.

“Catch you later Adrien, Mari,” Nino called as he led her away.

Alya shot Mari a very significant look over her shoulder which Mari steadfastly ignored.

That just left Mari and Adrien. Which usually would have been awkward, but somehow wasn’t. She’d been seeing more and more of him recently; just tentative greetings and small conversations by the coffee maker (though she’d never crossed paths with him there before) at first, and then longer chats while he warmed up for practice, or smuggling contraband croissants during one of his afternoon breaks. Which was weird. It was weird, right? Adrien Agreste had never been a part of her life, and now he was very subtly insinuating himself into her daily routine. Which should have been terrifying. But it wasn’t. It really wasn’t.

So, when he leaned against the piano next to her, crossing his arms across his chest, and smiled at her, smiling back at him felt as natural as breathing.

“You’re looking very pretty tonight,” he said, as the new pianist began to play.

“Thanks,” she smiled. “Although I feel you’re obligated to say that.”

He laughed at that. “You know, I’ve been thinking…”

“Always dangerous,” she quipped. “Don’t strain yourself.”

He batted a hand at her lazily. But when his eyes met hers they were genuine. “I was thinking, I’d love to see you dance.”

Her breath caught a little. “I haven’t danced in a while.”

He cocked his head. “You said you practised regularly,” he pointed out.

And drat him for remembering. “Yes – no – I mean, yes I do. But I haven’t danced professionally in a while. I’d say I’m out of practice.”

“What kind of performances were you in, before you moved on to design?” he asked, like he couldn’t help himself.

She shot him a questioning look. “I thought you said you looked me up on YouTube.”

He smiled, abashed, but unrepentant. “I wanted to hear about them from you.”

She huffed a sigh that was half-frustrated, half-pleased. “Well I was still pretty young when I quit, so it’s not like I’d done a lot of major parts-”

He raised his eyebrows.

“Okay, okay!” She could feel her cheeks heating up. “I was one of the cygnets in _[Swan Lake](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=f9NnI3u9ppY)_ , and Kitri in _[Don Quixote](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5fKxzQ8ARTQ),_  and I played the lead in _[Giselle](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3TLSrI_hXEw) _ and _[Carmen](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IDMcWSYali8),_  and I’m…” She broke off when she saw the way he was looking at her.

“Brilliant,” Adrien breathed. “You’re brilliant.”

“Says you,” she snapped, and then could have bitten her tongue.

He grinned playfully. “Now this is a nice change of pace. But I never know what to do when you compliment me.”

“Ignore it,” she snapped lightly. “I’m sure you get enough fanservice as it is.”

“Not from you,” he pointed out. He pretended to think on it. “In fact, I think you’re the only one who insults me.”

“When have I insulted you?”

He shot her a look.

“When have I insulted you _tonight_?”

He gave a bark of laughter at that and she was glad, because now they were back on familiar territory. Snapping and teasing and trading insults like wildfire. Which was good, because otherwise she was pretty sure that what they were doing would count as flirting, and flirting with Adrien was something to be avoided at all costs.

“You know, you’re a bit of a smartass for a girl that gets hot and bothered over sewing equipment.”

She couldn’t contain her grin. “But you like me like that.”

His eyes sparkled. “Yeah, I do-”

He broke off, catching sight of something over her shoulder. She looked to see what had him so distracted and saw Chloé passing nearby, looking like an angel. All white and gold. Oh. _Oh._ Of course. Mari deflated.

Adrien’s attention drifted back to her and he asked, “Hey, I’m going to get us some drinks. What would you like?”

“Some champagne would be nice.” She smiled tightly. And then added “Enjoy your sparkling water, I hear it’s delicious.” Because she was really that mature.

As soon as he left she gave herself a mental kick for having the maturity of a five-year old. But at the same time, ouch. She understood, or at least she half understood. It was Chloé – beautiful, talented Chloé. But at the same time…it was _Chloé._

She just wished Adrien hadn’t flirted back. Now she just felt like a dick.

Which meant it was the perfect moment for a manicured hand to tap her on the shoulder. She turned.

“Marinette,” Chloé snapped. “I need to talk to you.”

 _I really_ don’t _need to talk to you,_ she thought, but put on her big-girl pants and asked, “What is it?”

She half-expected some cliché scene where Chloé warned her off Adrien, but instead the words that came out of her mouth were the most sensible she’d heard all night.

“The show is getting close,” she said. “I’m going to need you to hurry up on my dress, it’s taking too long.”

“It wouldn’t be taking so long if you would let me finalise the fit,” Mari pointed out sweetly. But her tone was mild. She was just relieved Chloé was finally starting to realise they had a deadline.

Sure enough, Chloé flicked her blond hair from one shoulder to the other, showing off the gleaming rubies at her ears. Ah, so that was the reason for all the security. Daddy Bourgeois must have brought them out of the vault for the event. “Whatever.” Chloé shrugged. “We can finalise the fit tomorrow. From now on, I don’t want you working on anything other than my dress until it’s finished.”

She didn’t point out that Chloé’s dress was the only thing she had left to finish because of what a little brat she was. _Just smile and nod, Mari,_ she thought, _smile and nod._

Someone wove through the crowd and tapped Chloé on the shoulder. “Chloé? Adrien wants to speak to you. He’s on the balcony.”

Chloé smirked at Mari and flounced off. But that wasn’t the reason for Mari’s frown. She glanced towards the buffet table where she’d seen Adrien a few seconds ago. Yeah, she could easily believe he wanted some one-on-one time with the pampered princess, but as far as she knew he wasn’t able to teleport. She searched through the crowd but now she couldn’t spot him.

Chloé slipped onto the balcony with a nod to the security guards and Mari’s Spidey-senses shifted to full alert. She didn’t think. She just followed Chloé. Weaving through the crowd, she picked up the pace. Her heart was pounding and something was warning her to _run._

But when she emerged onto the balcony – it was empty. Chloé was nowhere to be seen. She frowned. Surely both Chloé and Adrien couldn’t be magically disappearing from places they were supposed to be? She took a few steps right, and followed the balcony as it curved around the corner of the building.

And promptly stopped walking when she almost tripped over Chat Noir, who was looming over Chloé like the phantom of the night.

She had to clap a hand over her mouth to hold back a scream. “What did you do to her?” she demanded, hurrying to crouch beside Chloé and check her pulse.

She could feel Chat Noir’s eyes on her even before she looked up – and yes, there he was. She wasn’t imagining him. He looked just as he had done outside the Bourgeois’ safe. Clad in black, with his hood drawn low, and a Cheshire-cat grin covering his lower face. When he wiggled his fingers, she could see the glint of his claws.

“I didn’t do anything,” he said coolly, and damn him, he sounded disinterested. “She took one look at me and fainted.”

“Can’t imagine why, you’re such a pleasure to look at,” she said, getting to her feet. She hoped he couldn’t tell the confidence in her voice was fake. Her heart was beating up a samba.

He laughed, long and low, “Ah Marinette. Such a sharp tongue. It’s good to see you again.”

“Can’t say the same I’m afraid,” she spat. “Though I thought this was too _convenient_.”

“How so?” he purred. He stepped over Chloé and stalked towards her.

Mari swallowed, backing up until she hit the wall. “The Diamont’s jewels are stolen and suddenly Le Miraculeux Rubies are the only ones that can take their place? Those rubies would never have left the Bourgeois’ safe otherwise and we both know it.”

“Very clever of you Marinette,” he pushed her against the wall, hands wrapped tight around her biceps, and slid into her space.

She was so scared, but now she’d started talking she couldn’t stop. “It’s Le Miraculeux Rubies you want, isn’t it? That’s why you were outside the safe. But you couldn’t get to them, so you had to lure them out into the open.” All the niggling thoughts in the back of her mind, all the answers to her questions were falling into place.

He tapped his claws to her cheek. “You’re quite the detective. However shall I reward you for your deductions?”

“You could let me go, and turn yourself in,” she snapped.

“How about no?”

“How about yes?”

He leaned in close and whispered in her ear, “You never told anyone about me, did you?” he pointed out.

“Of course not. You scare me.” And this close she knew he’d be able to feel her shaking.

For some reason, that made him step back. “I’m not doing this because I want to,” he snapped, looking away. And it was the first time she’d heard him sound frustrated. “There are far worse monsters for you to be afraid of.”

She blinked. “Like who?” She felt dazed at the sudden space, but her voice came out like a challenge.

His glare swung towards her, and his hood rode up high enough for her to catch a glimpse of his eyes. She couldn’t tell the colour, but could see the gleam from the reflection of the city’s lights. He hesitated.

“Le Papillion,” he murmured, after a silence so long she thought he would not break it. “I’ll warn you now, little Marinette, he’s the one you should be scared of. He finds out your darkest secrets and he uses them to twist men and bring them to their knees.”

“Is that what he did to you?”

“Never mind what he did to me. He plays with people’s fears and failures and turns them into monsters. You should pray you and he never meet.”

“No one can force someone to do something against their will.”

“Ah, but you can persuade. And Le Papillion is so very, very good at _persuading_.”

“So, are you saying you’re one of his monsters?”

He snarled. “I’m saying I’m not the one pulling the strings.”

“That’s a shit answer and you know it.”

“I never claimed to be a saint.”

“Chat-”

“Enough,” he snapped. “I’m here for the rubies, not you. Stay out of my way, Mari.”

He turned towards Chloé and she stepped in front of her.

“Hey,” she put her fists up. “I have eight years of Shaolin Kung Fu training. Do not mess with me pretty kitty.”

Chat Noir just stared at her. She had the fleeting thought that picking a fight with a known criminal who’d just shoved you against a wall probably wasn’t the best idea. But what was she supposed to do? And there something about this, something about the situation that made her want to push _back._

“I don’t want to hurt you-” he said at last.

But whether he would have hurt her or not, she’d never know, because that was the moment one of the security guards stepped out onto the balcony and called, “Miss Bourgeois?”

She risked a glance over her shoulder and when she looked back, Chat Noir had gone. Melted into the shadows.

“Over here!” she called, and the guard rounded the corner.

The rest of the night was a mess and a blur. Chloé had to be looked after, and gotten out quietly under the noses of the press. Mari had to give her statement – which took forever – and then explain to Alya and Nino why she’d disappeared for a couple hours. They were frantic to know she was okay. And she was okay. Even Chloé was okay, and Chat Noir hadn’t managed to steal the rubies. So why did Mari feel so hollow inside? She had no idea.

And on top of everything else, Adrien never did come back with drinks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, so if all the friendship and fluff seems pretty fast, its because this is primarily a self-indulgent fanfic and there is nothing I love more than Alya/Mari and Adrien/Nino's brotp-ness.  
> I've also been asked how often I'm planning to update this, and at this stage I'm aiming for weekly but don't hold me to that. I have high hopes, but Real Life can be a bitch, so we'll see how it goes.  
> If you are so inclined, check out my [To Catch a Cat Burglar pinterest board](https://www.pinterest.nz/chocgirlnz/to-catch-a-cat-burglar/), and my [tumblr](http://nochurrointheversecanstopme.tumblr.com/).  
> Have a lovely Easter guys xx


	4. Tall Tails

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I've had a very interesting/busy fortnight and this chapter just did not want to come out. Thus it took a little longer than usual. Thank you for all your comments and kudos; they mean the world to me. Hope you enjoy this chapter!

 

“Marinette!”

Oh boy. Three syllables should not be able to fill her with so much dread. Especially not when they formed her own name.

“Chloé, Alya,” Adrien added with a smile, as he strode down the aisle to meet them.

Alya gave a jaunty salute, but Chloé latched on like a limpet.

“Adrien,” she cooed. “I missed you.”

“How can you miss me when I’ve been dancing just for you?”

She simpered. Actually _simpered._

“Hope you liked the view.” He winked.

Like anyone could dislike the view when the view was Adrien and his perfect ass leaping across the stage?

Mari kept silent as she packed her sewing supplies away. Clearly a response from her was not needed. She packed the Coppélia dress back in its plastic, and made her escape. But Adrien’s sharp eyes caught her, drat him.

“Mari!” Adrien called, as she tried to sneak off.

She glanced over her shoulder. He seemed worried. _Leftover guilt from what happened to Chloé_ , she assured herself. She’d been hearing about it all morning.

“Hi Adrien.” She grabbed Alya by the arm and dragged her along. “Bye Adrien.”

“Wait – I didn’t get a chance to talk to you last night after-”

“Sorry. I’m busy!” she called over her shoulder.

 _Okay, I’m Coward with a capital C,_ she thought, _so sue me._ She still didn’t want to talk to Adrien. All Chloé had been able to talk about that morning was how kind and considerate and worried Adrien had been for her. Apparently, he’d spent the evening after Chloé’s ordeal – once the paramedics and the police had been finished with her, and the rubies had been handed off to security –making sure she was okay. From the way Chloé phrased it, it was all too easy to imagine Adrien and Chloé curled up on a couch in her apartment, her nestled in her arms as he comforted her as best he could.

It had been a struggle not to stick her with a pin.

So Adrien felt guilty it was his name that had been used to lure Chloé out there. Mari got that. She did. He obviously cared about Chloé a lot, and he was clearly on more intimate terms with her than Mari had first anticipated. Which was fine. It wasn’t any of her business what Adrien did or didn’t feel for Chloé, and if he wanted to spend time with her or not.

She just wished he hadn’t flirted with her so much.

She kept a tight grip on Alya’s arm until they’d reached the safety of the edge of the room. Maybe it was a dick move – the unimpressed look Alya was giving her seemed to indicate it was – but she didn’t want to talk to him. Alya had been there to finally conduct the interview with the premier danseuse that she’d been putting off. Allegedly she’d picked the time when Mari was conducting her final fitting to kill two birds with one stone – Chloé was a busy bee and didn’t have a lot of free time on her hands after all – but really, she’d just wanted Mari to be there to lessen the chances of her stabbing Chloé with a pencil. Now she was looking at Mari like she was the one dangerously wielding stationary.

Okay, so maybe the quick escape had been a dick move. And a little too obvious. But she really, _really_ didn’t want to talk to Adrien.

“So, what was that?” Alya asked. Alya asked. And god help her, Alya had her blood-hound, will-pry-the-truth-from-you-with-rusty-nails, journalist look on.

“What was what?” Mari asked innocently.

Alya rolled her eyes. “That _obvious_ blow-off. Did you and Adrien have a fight?”

“No,” Mari grunted.

“Did he say something to you?”

“No.”

“Can you stop answering my questions in monosyllables?”

“No.”

Alya threw up her hands in frustration. “You just told him you were busy – you aren’t busy!”

“I _am_ busy. Just because I’m finished with Chloé – and I’m not quite finished because even if I have finished the fitting, I still have to finish the Coppélia dress– doesn’t mean I don’t have a mountain of work to do before Friday.”

“You-”

Mari turned to her, and grabbed her by the arms. “Alya, please. I will buy you a grande caramel mocha frappe if you drop this now.”

Because yes, Alya was her friend and she deserved to know what was bothering her. But first she needed time to get her own feelings in order. All she knew right now was there was a rolling feeling in her gut whenever she looked at Adrien, and when she looked at Chloé she just felt stupid.

Alya’s eyes narrowed. She moved to protest but stopped. Maybe it was the offer of caffeine, maybe it was the please, or maybe she’d seen the look on Mari’s face and realised how badly Mari wanted to avoid this. “Fine,” she said sweetly, “but it’s going to be sooner rather than later.”

Mari nodded, and curled up in a seat to start hemming the dress. But the action wasn’t enough to keep her from thinking, and it was her thoughts she wanted to avoid the most. After Chat Noir had disappeared last night, she’d spent a good few hours talking to Sabrina’s dad and another detective. Because she was a witness, and apparently that was a bid deal because Chat Noir didn’t leave witnesses. Which – okay, it sounded bad when she thought about it like that. It wasn’t like he was killing anybody – God she hoped he wasn’t killing anybody – it was just that no one ever saw him come or go. There was only one shaky piece of footage and the brainpower of Paris’ finest to prove he was their man. But having a _witness_. Well.

Either Chat Noir’s desperation for the rubies had made him sloppy, or there was something else going on here.

Mari left out the finer details of her discussion with Chat, but she gave the police the name Le Papillion. Their reaction was not a gratifying one. She could see it in the way the air in the room changed to something cloying and sickly and cold. They were _scared._ They gave her no details in return, but she didn’t have to be a detective to know that whoever Le Papillion was, he was bigger and badder than any slippery-fingered cat burglar. But that only made her more curious and Mari hated being curious. Who the fuck was Le Papillion? How was Chat Noir related to him? What did he have over Chat Noir that was forcing him into thieving for him?

She glanced at the stage. Break time was over and Adrien was back at it. His Franz seemed sadder today somehow, or maybe that was just the effect of Nino playing his new song [berceuse solitaire](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FAeN2SgtNwU) on the piano. When Adrien pined for Coppélia in the window seat his frustration was so palpable she stuck herself with a needle.

 _Oh well,_ she thought viciously, as she sucked her bleeding thumb, _I guess we all want things we can’t have._

~

That cup of coffee rolled around far quicker than Mari had thought.

She should have known. After all, Alya could only go so long without knowing the answer to something, and in this case, that was about twelve hours. So, a late hour in the bastille sewing rooms found Mari, Alya, and Nino (who was there for ‘moral support’) sitting on the floor and sipping their grande caramel mocha frappes. On the floor because when Nino had made a beeline for the table covered with dresses Mari had given him the death stare that said _uh-uh on the floor, get the mochas_ away _from the dresses._ He had very sensibly heeded her warning.

But once Alya and Mari were comfortably settled, backs to the wall and knees drawn up, Mari knew she had very little time left before Alya demanded answers. So, she decided to distract her.

“I still love how none of these interviews end with any actual interviewing,” Mari commented, taking a sip of her frappe.

“We’ll get there,” Alya assured her, thumbing through her newsfeed on her phone. “Think of all this as background research.”

“Background research?” she snorted.  “None of this had better end up in your article, or I’m unfriending you on Facebook.”

Alya let out a fake gasp. “Oh no, not Facebook!” She chuckled, weaving an arm through Mari’s and snuggling into her shoulder. “No. You’re not getting rid of me that easy.”

Mari gave a small smile at that, but said nothing. Instead she let her eyes settle on Nino, who was sprawled on his stomach before them, scribbling furiously into a notepad. He paused every now and then, tapping his pen out to a beat only he could hear, his own frappe neglected.

Her friendship with Alya had been a lightning strike in its own way, her very own _coupe de foudre._ She’d had friends over the years, all wonderful and fun and amiable in their own way – Rose, Juleka, Ivan, and Mylène **–** but not anything like Alya. Alya was sassy and bold and utterly loyal. She’d known her a week, and already it felt like a lifetime. But that was the way of it. Some intimacies came easier than others; some took days and some took years. In her heart, Mari had secretly been scared that when the production was over, the spell would be broken. That Alya would go back to her busy, exciting life, too distracted by new stories to remember little Marinette. They’d already made plans to catch up after the production (once Mari caught up with her _sleep_ ) and when Alya talked about the future, it wasn’t ‘if’ but ‘when’, the empty spaces in their schedules naturally filling up with each other. Mari blew out a sigh, finally allowing herself to relax in the knowledge that this was going to last.

 _It’s nice to get to know Nino better too,_ she thought, as the composer sat bolt upright and waved a hand at them.

“Listen to this, listen to [this](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ycy30LIbq4w),” he demanded, pulling up a keyboard app on his phone. He tapped out the first notes of a melody both flirtatious and slow, almost jazzy in its composition. Then he wrinkled his nose. “Oh wait, that’s _Lost in Japan_. Shit. As you were, ladies.”

He waved an arm at them and went back to his notepad. Alya rolled her eyes but there was an indulgent smile tugging at her lips.

Mari sighed, and let her head fall back against the wall. “Time seems to slip away so fast,” she said, eying the darkened costume studio. The room was filled with racks upon racks of tutus, bodices, and dresses in various stages of creation, the tables strewn with tulle and beading and marker’s chalk. In the twilight, the growing shadows and the silence lent the room an eeriness only interrupted by the lights that played across the ceiling from the traffic below. It reminded her a little of the nefarious Doctor Coppelius’ workshop. In the dark, the mannequins became his wind-up dolls, the dresses headless ballerinas, and the empty space a stage for his black magic to be worked. She shivered. “I can’t believe there are only a few more days until opening night.”

Alya made a sympathetic noise. “Have you got much more to do?”

Mari shrugged, rubbing at her tired shoulders. “Most of it is done. I’ve finalised the cast’s costumes, and there’s mostly just last-minute check-ups and minor embellishments to do.” She rolled her eyes. “The last nightmare is our own dear Swanhilda.”

“Ah yes, Chloé. How is the demon doing?” Alya asked.

Nino snorted at that, and glanced up.

Mari groaned. “I swear, last week it was all, _you need to finish my dress? Whatever, I need to go shopping – oooh_ Adri- _kins!_ ” she snatched the Coppélia wig and tugged it on. “Today, it’s _you haven’t finished my dress yet? Could you work any slower? Oh my god Marinette, don’t you know I’m here to make your life miserable?_ ”

“Oh my God, please stop,” Nino wheezed between laughter. “The voice is spot on, but the hair looks too much like yours.”

Mari tossed the mass of dark curls at Nino, who made a noise akin to a shriek, and batted it away. “Please tell me you didn’t make that.”

“Thankfully not. That pleasure belongs to the wig department.”

“I didn’t even realise we had a wig department,” he muttered in wonder.

Mari scoffed. “And you call yourself a composer.”

“What? I don’t-”

Alya held a finger to his lips. “It’s easier once you stop expecting her to make sense.”

Nino rolled his eyes and went back to his composing while Mari flicked Alya’s ear as she settled down between them again. She pulled the Coppélia dress into her lap.

“Remind me again why _Paul Saint Peter_ decided to be dicks and move the date forward three weeks?” Alya asked.

“I don’t know, but I do know that Chloé won’t be the only one wanting to flay me alive if I don’t get this dress done. I may have Swanhilda’s two peasant dresses finished, as well as her wedding gown, but _this dress_ is the piece de resistance. It has twice as much embroidery and detailing, it’s worn in the biggest dance number of the show, and when people talk in months to come about _Coppélia_ the absolutely stunning ballet, _this_ is the dress they will remember Chloé wearing. It must be spectacular.”

There was a moment of silence.

“So, no pressure or anything,” Alya said drily.

If Mari didn’t pull this off – no. She would pull this off. _I have to,_ she thought, Chloé and Adrien bright in her mind’s eye as the prima danseuse whispered _pathetic._

“But speaking of Chloé…”

Mari groaned, because she should have known the topic of Chloé would eventually lead back to Adrien.

“…I seem to remember another certain danseur you were less than pleased with this morning.”

“Oh no, I bought you a coffee to get out of having this conversation.”

“You bought me coffee to _delay_ this conversation,” Alya said, with a look. “Now spill. I want the deets.”

“There are no deets,” she tried. Alya’s face declared she was most definitely not buying that. “…Okay, so I may have been under the impression that Adrien was…a little into me.” She rubbed her neck in embarrassment. She felt like a creep just saying it. “And I have now been severely disabused of that notion.”

“A little into you Mari?” Alya demanded. “The guy was like a puppy. I don’t know what you did to him, but for the last week he’s been jumping at every excuse to get close to you, looking like you just offered him the damn arc de triumph just for breathing. What makes you think he isn’t into you?”

“Chloé.”

“ _Chloé_? The girl is in love with the idea of being in love with Adrien. That does not mean he returns the sentiment. He has far better taste.”

“Really? Because every time I see them together, she’s all over him and he does not seem to mind.” Mari raised her eyebrows. “He dances with her, laughs with her, he’s always over at her house.” She ticked off her fingers. “He looks at her like she hung the damn moon.”

“Not true. She’s the one always clinging to him…okay so that sounded bad. And overly defensive. And not very girl code.” Alya cringed. “But honestly Mari, what makes you think he’s into her like that?”

“Alya,” she said gently, “Does staying up with someone all evening just because your name was the bait they almost got cat-snatched with sound like just polite interest to you?”

Alya opened her mouth. Shut it again. She made a face. “Well…no. But I still don’t think-”

“And I do,” she said quietly.

Alya’s shoulders slumped. “Mari…”

She shrugged. “The attention was nice while it lasted. But come on, this is Adrien we’re talking about. He’s gone through like five girlfriends in the past few months. It’s not secret the boy can’t keep attention for long.”

But that didn’t cover half of it. Because she’d always known Adrien had a good face but it was only recently she’d come to realise he had a good heart. And that was dangerous information in a position like hers.

“Well I disagree,” Alya said stubbornly.

“Then we’ll have to agree to disagree,” she said mildly, going back to her work.

They didn’t speak again until hours later, when Mari scrubbed her hands over her eyes. She knew she wasn’t getting this finished tonight. Instead, she sighed and turned to Alya. “What time is it?”

The girl jolted slightly. She’d been falling asleep halfway through the article she was reading. “Uh – a bit after twelve am. You going to call it a night?”

“In a bit. You and Nino don’t have to stay you know.”

“Hey, I am all for quality time,” Alya smiled. “Besides which, I’ve basically been exploiting you for free coffee and snacks from the vending machine for the past two hours so, eh. I feel you’re stuck with me for the moment.”

“Oh ho, my pretty ladies. Just think,” Nino flopped over to face them. “It’s late, the city’s asleep…maybe if you leave now you’ll run into the notorious Chat Noir.” He waggled his eyebrows at them.

Alya snorted, but Mari gave a very real shiver. Which unfortunately, did not go unnoticed.

“You okay?” Alya asked. She cast Nino a dirty look for mentioning Chat Noir’s name only a night after her run-in with him.

And this was the moment. The exact, perfect moment for her to mention to somebody, anybody, that she and Chat Noir had met before. Not just at the publicity party, but in the dark of the night outside the Bourgeois vault. The moment to admit that she knew a whole hecking lot more than she was saying. To tell them she was scared to go to the police, scared for her parents, scared of Chat Noir-

Just _scared._

And Alya wasn’t just somebody. She was rapidly becoming what Mari would like to think of as her best friend. Nino was pretty much amigo número dos as well. If she couldn’t talk to these two about her secrets, what kind of friend did that make her?

But then Nino yawned and Alya shot him a warm look and the moment was past. Mari told herself she was thankful for it.

“Mm,” she said. “But since you’re exploiting me, tell me more about Chat Noir.”

Nino propped himself up on an elbow to raise an eyebrow at her. “Wow Mari, I had no idea you were interested in the dark side.”

She shrugged. “What can I say? I’m a cat person.”

Alya rolled her eyes and settled in to dish the good gossip. “ _Well._ The Emerald Cataclysm was his first…”

~

When Mari ran into Adrien the next morning, she knew hypothetically that all the problems of the universe weren’t his fault. But that didn’t mean it didn’t feel like they were. She knew it was a bitch move, avoiding him like she was, but she really just didn’t want to think about him. Or Chloé, or Coppélia, or Chat Noir. There was a whole list of topics she was trying to avoid and so far, she was failing at all of them. But however she felt towards him one way or another, she couldn’t help but feel bad for ignoring him. Not when they’d been so friendly before and not when he had no clue _why_. It wasn’t his fault.

So, when she rolled up yawning to the coffee table she automatically turned to go. But after a second ignoring his hurt look, she forced herself to turn back.

She cleared her throat. “Hey,” she said awkwardly. And God was this awkward. So, so awkward.

“Hey,” he said, eying her like she might run at any second.

Instead she picked up a cup and started pouring herself a cup of coffee. Just to show she was sticking around.

He shot her a smirk, but she could see the way his shoulders relaxed slightly. It wasn’t his fault she’d been into him and he flirted as easily as breathing. He had terrible taste, but they could still be friends. He was just off-limits, no touching. Nada. Nope. Which meant she somehow had to be normal around him; something she didn’t have much practice with in the first place.

“Sorry I’ve been weird lately,” she said, knocking shoulders with him.

The bump barely shook him (though the reminder of how rock-hard his lithe biceps were certainly shook her) but he fixed her with a look. “And this is a deviation from the norm how…?”

She rolled her eyes. “Oh, you’re such a wise guy.”

“Clearly. I am full of knowledge and foresight,” he quipped, with a quirk of his lips.

“And modesty. Don’t forget that.”

“Why would I need too when you’re here to remind me?” he purred. And oh God, he was leaning into her space.

_Bad Mari, don’t flirt, don’t flirt!_

She hastily looked away and took a large gulp of coffee. And Adrien turned back to what he was doing which…

Was shovelling food down his throat like his life depended on it. Low-calorie, danseur-approved, diet-food perhaps, but still. Just watching him had her twitching with the urge to take him home and feed him her parents’ fresh croissants. She glared at her coffee instead. Just how bad at this ‘act normal’ business was she?

Perhaps her annoyance made her bitchy, or perhaps it was just the sudden realisation that she was _physically_ incapable of hating him, that made her snap.

“What?” she arched a brow, “Doesn’t your mother feed you?”

He blinked. “Uh, no. My mother died when I was fourteen.”

That would explain why he looked like she’d punched him in the gut.

“Oh.” _Shit._ She wasn’t stupid – well clearly, she was, massively and totally – she’d known his mother wasn’t around. There was a definite lack of a Mrs Agreste in the house since she’d been working for Gabriel, and a lack of photos or general memorabilia of her at all. But she’d just figured they were divorced or something. It wasn’t a topic anyone had been eager to bring up and so she’d never asked. Cursing her slip of the tongue, she grimaced. “Well…on a scale of one to ten in ruining a mood, I think I managed a pretty solid eleven wouldn’t you say?”

“It’s okay.” He shrugged.

But clearly, it was not.

“I’m sorry,” she said awkwardly. She’d always been awful at handling grief.

He brushed it off. “What kind of mood did you think you were ruining?” he teased.

She blushed, she knew she did. She could feel the heat climbing up her neck all the way to her ears. “N-Nothing,” she snapped.

Adrien beamed, looking brighter than he had in days. He’d seemed pretty bummed yesterday – she put it down to his anxieties over Chloé – so it was good to see him smile. She couldn’t quite manage the same level of enthusiasm, but she gave her best impression of good humour. Or the best she could give while still rubbing distractedly at her eyes. It had been a late night last night, not because of work, but because after she’d gotten home she’d kicked off her jeans, crawled into bed, and then unwittingly pulled her phone under the covers with her. She’d stayed up until the early hours of the morning researching every gossip article and sketchy police report concerning Chat Noir for the last six months. The more she researched, the more she questioned. And she had far more questions than she did answers. When her searches on Chat Noir didn’t turn up much, she’d researched the jewels owned by the Diamont family; the jewels that had been so conveniently stolen.

The convention the jewels were supposed to be touring in – the tour that had necessitated _Coppélia_ ’s opening night had been moved forward to accommodate – was called _The Shining Pearl._ The touring exhibit was set to showcase the top ten most valuable pieces of jewellery from around Europe. The prices aside, all of them were collector’s items, absolutely drool-worthy and dripping in historical significance. The security at that shindig was going to be _intense._ But the curious thing was, from what she could tell, Europe’s top seven would not be making an appearance. Mari could understand not every collector being willing to give up their prized baby for a month’s tour, even with security, but she was still curious. By that point it was two in the morning and her curiosity had led her down a Wikipedia blackhole of clicking on link after link to find out more.

It turned out, the top seven had a name: Les trésors miraculeux. Which sounded unsettlingly familiar. And guess which piece was the first and foremost among these supposed miracle jewels? _Chloé’s earrings_. Surprise, surprise. Upon further research, she found out the rubies weren’t always known by their title. More commonly, they were known as ‘the ladybugs’. Because apparently there were several slight discolorations in the stones, though they were invisible to the human eye, that had sparked the nickname. That sounded to Mari like some next level, Pink Panther shit right there, but the rubies weren’t the end of it. All seven were a collector’s dream. The sapphire brooch had gone missing with an English heiress years ago, four of the others no one had heard from in years – Mari guessed their owners were sitting on them pretty tight – and the last…was the Emerald Cataclysm. Which had been stolen by none other than Chat Noir.

She frowned just thinking about it.

There was no way any this was a coincidence. It had to be connected. But was Chat Noir going after Les trésors miraculeux? It didn’t make sense. Why go to all this trouble to lure out jewels so valuable he’d never be able to fence them? He’d made it perfectly obvious he was able to steal just about every other rich socialite’s diamonds out there.

“Mari? Marinette?”

Mari blinked, and saw Adrien staring worriedly down at her. From his expression, it wasn’t his first attempt at getting her attention. He’d also somehow moved closer to her when she wasn’t paying attention. She hurriedly moved away.

“Sorry. Just dazed out for a second there.”

“You look anxious.”

“I’m fine.”

“Marinette,” he placed a hand on her arm hesitantly. “You know you can talk to me about anything, right?”

She smiled tightly. “Sorry Adrien, but for once you’re not someone I can talk to about this.”

~

She finally finished the Coppélia dress that night. After all her work, it was less of a trumpets and sirens moment than just a soft realisation that she was done. A moment where she turned the dress over in her hands and realised there was nothing more to do.

So the dress was done. Big whoop. She should have been excited but instead she just felt exhausted and vaguely nauseous. All she could think about was how this all felt like one big set up by Chat Noir, and she wasn’t going to like the punch line. She was pretty certain by this point that he was luring the jewels out into the open because he couldn’t get past the Bourgeois’ frankly, legendary security. But there was nothing she could do to stop it. Chloé was going to go on stage wearing the rubies during her Coppélia act without even knowing it was a trap. And at some point, in the night when she was most vulnerable Chat Noir was going to relieve her of her jewels. All because Mari was smart enough to figure out Chat Noir’s plot but not smart enough to stop him. It made her so _frustrated._ Here Chloé was thinking Mari pathetic, and in the end, wasn’t she right? If Marinette knew something was wrong, but could do nothing, didn’t that make her pathetic?

She didn’t let herself think about what she was doing while she considered how difficult Chloé’s Coppélia routine really was. She just packed the dress in her mum’s car and drove to the theatre. Security let her through. They knew her by now. She didn’t let herself think as she pulled on the dress and the mask that would hide Chloé’s face from view and made her way onto the stage. She didn’t think – she danced.

The set was _hard._ She pushed her way through the routine – she knew it by heart from watching Chloé perform it a dozen times a day, every day, for months – but it pushed her to her limits. She’d trained with Chloé, and she’d been better than Chloé, but she hadn’t trained in years. The performance was gruelling as if the stage was mocking her for thinking it would be so easy. For thinking she could dance like a star when she had ignored the art for so long. Frankly, she was lucky she hadn’t given herself an injury. She was halfway through performing it a third time, her lungs heaving and her legs shaking, when none other than Chat Noir strolled into the theatre.

_Shit._

Mari had always loved the way the theatre looked at night, so silent and severe. At night it looked as if it had a secret, and it was waiting until its seats were full and the stage lit to share warmly with the world. But at this moment it was only dark and full of shadows. Still panting, she stared in shock as Paris’ own arrogant cat burglar sauntered up the aisle. She was suddenly very aware of how alone she was, and of how she hadn’t told anyone she was coming here. The first place people would look for her would be the Bastille sewing rooms. No one would be here until morning.

“You.”

“Me,” he agreed, and she could practically hear him smiling.

“What brings you here so late at night, little Marinette?”

“I could ask you the same question.”

“You could.” He shrugged. “But I might remind you that I make a living off being places I shouldn’t. What’s your excuse?”

She grimaced. “Perhaps I just wanted some light exercise.”

He cocked his head at that. She still couldn’t see past the damn hood, but she knew he was watching her, observing her every move. “I thought you were interested in ball gowns not ballet. I must say I’m surprised to see you taking on Coppélia’s role.”

“If you’re trying to insinuate that I’m a puppet or somehow lacking substance, I’m going to have to inform you that I don’t take well to insults after twelve am. Please come back at a later date.”

He made it to the stage and vaulted up in one smooth movement. Then he was on her stage and in her space. For all her bravado, she couldn’t help but recoil. His sharp eyes caught the movement and he halted. Thank God.

“You know, I’m a thief not a murderer. It’s in the name: cat burglar. As in someone that _burgles_.” He raised his hands gently. “You don’t have to be afraid of me.”

“It’s not me I’m afraid for.”

He groaned. “I’m not going to hurt your parents either.”

“That’s not what you said the night we first met.”

“The night we first met I was more interested in you keeping quiet than anything else. I would have said most anything to ensure your remained silent. And you have. So it’s probably fair for me to tell you now, I don’t plan on doing anything to your parents. I never have.”

“I hope you don’t expect me to trust you,” she snarked.

“Always such a sharp tongue.” He crept closer. “Come on Marinette. You look stressed. Come and tell Uncle Chat all about it.”

“As _if_.”

He shrugged. “Who am I going to tell?”

“Well, aside from the fact that there’s this crazed lunatic on the loose, and a nightmare performance coming up, I’m pretty sure you’re not qualified to hear about my boy troubles.”

And oh God, that had been the absolute worst thing to say because now Chat Noir looked _very_ interested.

“Is that so?” his eyes were gleaming in the darkness. “Who’s the boy? Do tell. I’m very good at keeping secrets.”

“I wouldn’t trust you and your sneaky paws with my mother’s least-favourite spatula,” she bit out. “Let alone let you in on the details of my personal life.”

He sauntered around to circle her, brushing shoulders with her from behind. “Oh, you can trust me,” he whispered. “I promise I’ll take your secret to the grave.”

“Like I’d trust a cat with nine lives.”

“I’m very trustworthy.”

“Then why don’t you tell me what you want with Les trésors miraculeux?”

He froze at that.

“Yeah, that’s what I thought.”

He swallowed sharply, circling around to face her once more. “My, my,” he shook his head. “Every time I can’t think you can possibly get smarter, you prove me wrong.”

“So I am right.”

“Not exactly.”

“But I’m not wrong?”

“Not as a matter of fact.”

“You do want the jewels?”

“ _I_ don’t.”

She bit her tongue in frustration. What was he doing here if he was only going to taunt her with half-answers that only created more questions? He was clearly toying with her, leading her towards something, but not giving her the information she needed. Yet, she got the feeling he honestly did want her to figure it out. Then it hit her.

“Le Papillion is the one that wants the jewels…” she breathed.

Chat Noir slid a claw down her cheek. “Very clever,” he breathed gently. And since when had he looked at her like that?

“So you’re stealing them for him? Did you steal the sapphire already?”

“ _No_.” He snatched his hand back.

“But you did steal the Emerald Cataclysm, and possibly some of the others, and you’re going to try for the rubies. But why? What does he have over you?”

“Let’s just say it’s a matter of carrot and stick. And in this case, the stick is some very personal details I would rather not be made public.”

His identity then. “And the carrot?” she asked gently.

“Something he shouldn’t have in the first place,” he bit out, his voice twisted savagely.

“What did he do to you?”

“He took something precious from me, and intend to get it back.”

She shook her head. “That can’t be worth all this.”

“How would you know?” he snapped. “You don’t know anything.”

“Maybe not, but I get the feeling that underneath that mask there’s a person without a smile painted on. Whatever this is, stop it. Get out.”

“I can’t,” he hissed. “I’ve been tangled up in this too long.”

“ _Untangle_ yourself then,” she said harshly.

“I _can’t_ ,” he repeated. “Le Papillion pulls all the strings.”

And perhaps she was harsher to him than usual because she was more upset than she let on. But it was this whole situation. All these questions and no answers and games in the dark and the masks. So many masks. But her biggest question of the night was why the hell he was here telling her anything.

She turned away. “Then I guess you are a puppet after all,” she snapped.

She knew she didn’t imagine his sharp intake of breath. She’d hurt him. She’d meant to hurt him. And when she finally turned back to the theatre, he was gone. Good. _It’s better that way_ , she told herself. _Out of sight, out of mind._

Except Chat Noir was never far from her mind. Not as she peeled out of the costume and changed back into her regular clothes, not as she drove home, not as she dragged herself to bed. Her body was aching, her mind was exhausted, but she still had the energy for her mind to tick over the puzzle of Chat Noir again and again and again. More than anything, she wanted to take back the knowledge that Le Papillion, whoever the bastard was, knew Chat Noir’s identity outside all this. That he was someone more than smoke and Cheshire grin. Someone who went grocery shopping for cereal and shampoo, who rode the bus, who flirted with girls. Someone who was just a boy.

And that more than anything, was a terrifying thought.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This weekend my best friend and I went to see _Wicked_ , and hearing Elphaba sing _Defying Gravity_ live was spellbinding. You think I'm punning (and I am) but I literally could not take my eyes off of her. I sat paralyzed in my seat and I swear no performance has held me that captivated before. That, as well as being in a proper theatre with an amazing cast and orchestra has definitely given me even more inspiration for the finale of this story. Opening night is coming up folks, hold onto your seats.
> 
> As always, please feel free to check out my [To Catch A Cat Burglar pinterest board](https://www.pinterest.nz/chocgirlnz/to-catch-a-cat-burglar/).
> 
> And for more hot ballet dude appreciation, check out these [amazingly talented ballet bros](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Gc6t-CDHTwM). Whenever I start going on about certain hard-earned, ass-thetically pleasing parts of ballet dude's exterior (I'm not actually shallow, I promise) this is basically what I'm thinking of.


	5. Impawtant Details

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just to warn you guys, there are only two (possibly three) chapters left. The next chapter is the big one - opening night. So after this chap it is All Drama, All the Time. Enjoy!
> 
> (And as a side note, Barbie and The Nutcracker was my first ever introduction to ballet and as such, has a super special place in my heart. Right next to my pulmonary artery. I knew since I was writing a ballet au, I had to sneak it in there somewhere. Early 2000's crappy animation be damned).

 

Not for the first time, Mari was relieved she wasn’t dancing professionally anymore. Because watching Chloé onstage right now physically _hurt._

Maybe it was the fact that everyone was watching her – though attention wasn’t usually something the princess had a problem with – or maybe it was the security, but whatever it was, it was throwing her. Personally, Mari was betting on the security. Chloé wasn’t even wearing the rubies yet but the place was covered in guards doing their final checks before the performance that evening. They were waiting in the wings, watching from the boxes, lurking in the aisles, the exits, the cheap seats – there were enough of them to make anyone nervous. Perhaps there were enough that Chloé was realising for the first time what it was she had pushed her father into, and who the responsibility would fall to if this went wrong. Pressure. It was always present on opening night, but Chloé looked like she was drowning in it. She landed a pirouette at an awkward angle, and Mari winced, forcing herself to look away.

That afternoon was the dress rehearsal, where everyone did their final run through before tonight. Which meant full costume, full lights, music, the whole shebang. Then they had a break before the big performance. Or at least, the danseurs did. Mari and the others behind the scenes still had a million things to do. She sat, organising, while onstage Chloé ran through her [wedding dance](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hfzAXUkzlMo&t=1s), the one Swanhilda would perform before the town after Doctor Coppelius was defeated, and her beloved Franz was safe. It required a tight series of perfectly executed moves to a slow musical number that left no mercy for error. Mari didn’t envy her. A danseur’s job was to take the impossible and make it look effortless. She looked the part at least. The dress she was wearing was downy and delicate and beautiful. Mari was just considering making a less flashy version for herself later, when onstage Chloé slipped.

Instantly, Mari and a dozen other people were on their feet. Madame Bustier was already waving to Nino to cut the orchestra off. Once Mari’s heartrate had settled a little, she realised it wasn’t even a big slip. It was fine. There would be no headlines that day screaming _Premier Danseuse Breaks a Leg Before Performance!_ But if this had been the actual performance the situation would have been dire.

As such, Madame Bustier seemed determined to rip her a new one.

“Chloé! In what universe do you call that _ballet_?” she yelled. “You are the premier danseuse. Act like it!”

Even Mari grimaced.

“It won’t happen again,” Chloé said tightly.

“No, it will not!” Madame pointed down the aisle. “Take ten, and when you come back give me perfection.”

Chloé stomped down the aisle like she was out for blood. In this case, Mari’s blood, because she was unfortunate enough to run into her first. One of Chloé’s ribbons had come loose during what Mari was now referring to in her head as The Great Slip, and the danseur came to a halt in front of her. She didn’t speak. She just stood there imperiously, glaring down at her, waiting for Mari to fix it. Mari raised her eyebrows.

“Well?” Chloé snapped. “Hurry up. Can’t you do your job?”

“Not all of us can be wind-up toys, Chloé,” she said, smiling sweetly, awfully. “Some of us require a _please._ ”

Okay, so maybe Mari’s bitchiness factor was a little higher than usual right then. But she was tired, busy, and sick of Chloé treating her like garbage. She’d spent the past few days waking up at insane hours so that she could come to the theatre to practice Coppélia’s routine before came in, and that was on top of the usual sleep-stealing commitments. She was worried about tonight, flooded with work, and every five minutes Natalie came to interrupt her with a new task and then got upset she hadn’t finished the last one. It was enough to make anyone tetchy.

Chloé’s eyes narrowed. She had been taken down a peg in front of everyone and clearly needed to re-establish her authority. But Mari wasn’t interested in submitting.

“I guess you can’t do your job,” Chloé said with cold, careful precision. “But then, you never could, could you?”

“Excuse me?” Mari asked. “I’m afraid I don’t follow. You’ll have to try a less airheaded approach…oh. _Can_ you?”

Chloé examined her perfect nails. “Face it Marinette, you weren’t good enough for ballet back then, and you’re clinging to the side-lines now. It’s pathetic. When you left the Academy, you should have just stayed gone.”

Mari’s cheeks were red. Chloé’s voice was loud enough to carry, and everyone was listening now. The ballet community was a small one, and it wasn’t like most of the people in this room hadn’t either known her back when she was at the Academy, or heard about it second-hand, but it was different having her insecurities laid out in the open. It burned like a brand. Worse, Adrien was listening. She could see him in her periphery, paused in the middle of whatever he was doing to watch the two of them in worry. To watch this angelic creature stand over her delivering her wrath while still examining her perfect nails. Mari was the shoddy seamstress by comparison. She was wearing ripped jeans and a t-shirt with a hole in the armpit, and she wasn’t sure if she’d brushed her hair that morning, but now she was too afraid to check.

But she forced herself to look up and meet Chloé’s gaze. The princess was finally looking at her, with a smile that was terribly sweet.

“I was good enough and you know it,” Mari said through gritted teeth. Because she needed to say this, to face this head on for once. “How else could I have beaten you for the part of Giselle?”

Chloé recoiled like she’d been slapped. Which she had, in a way. Her smile turned sour and she glanced around in embarrassment. Clearly an audience wasn’t quite so welcome to her anymore. She didn’t say a word, and stomped stiffly over to Natalie to sort her out instead. Natalie, who was glaring at Mari with a look that said she was going to be in trouble for this later. Mari looked around. In fact, everyone was looking at her. Some judging, some supportive, most just curious. She swallowed hard. She hated it, she hated the way everyone was watching her as if they had the right to the personal details of her life; like they had the right to lay down judgement on her choices.

Hastily, she shot to her feet. The forgotten work in her lap went clattering loudly.  Dimly she was aware of Adrien making his way over. She put a hand to her head, feeling lightheaded. Everyone was looking at her. Everyone _knew. Oh shit. Oh shit, shit, shit, shit-_

“Mari?” Adrien grabbed her by the wrist.

“Yeah, yeah,” she hissed, fighting down another wave of embarrassment. “I started a fight with your girlfriend. Sorry. Now-”

“What? No, never mind. Let’s get you out of here.” He started tugging on her arm but she shook her head.

“I can’t,” she said, staying firmly rooted to the ground. “I have work to do.”

“What?”

“It’s opening night. I can’t just bugger off because I’m upset – I’m a professional.”

He let out an annoyed huff and stepped closer, until she was forced to meet his eyes and take in that intoxicating expanse of sharp green. “What you need, is to stop being so hard on yourself. Jesus, no one likes a martyr Mari. You’re upset, and you’ve been doing everything you can today. Take a break – the world won’t implode,” he snapped.

“But-”

“Come on.”

He dragged her away, out into the hallway and up the stairs until they came out on the roof. She blinked at the sudden brightness. But it was nice up here, whatever _[The Phantom of the Opera](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Zy1lWiHHHFY) _ had to say about it. Were there intimidating and slightly creepy statues? Yes. But there was also sunshine and Mari hadn’t realised how badly she needed a breath of fresh air until it hit her. She turned her face towards the sun and closed her eyes. Took in a long breath, then another.

“Good.”

She opened her eyes to see Adrien viewing her critically. He still looked annoyed, but he manhandled her over to one of the benches to sit.

“Stay here,” he ordered, and promptly disappeared back down the way they’d come.

Mari did as he said. She let her head rest against the stonework and closed her eyes again, breathing in the fresh air. Her head was pounding – proper you-haven’t-had-enough-sleep-or-anything-to-eat pounding – and it wasn’t just that. Her stomach was all twisted up in knots thinking about tonight. She really, really _didn’t_ want to think about tonight, or what it might mean, or all the things she kept exiling from her thoughts-

Adrien marched back onto the roof and her eyes snapped open.

“You came back,” she said, mildly surprised.

If anything, he looked even more annoyed at that. “Of course, I came back. Jesus.” He threw something in her lap. “Here.”

It was a sandwich. He thrust a cup of coffee in her hand, full of milk and sugar the way she liked it. He had a whole bag of other things too; carrot sticks, an apple, and crackers and cheese. A veritable picnic. Now if only he’d stop looking so cranky.

She sighed and bumped shoulders with him. “So how did you get into ballet?” she asked softly, trying to distract him.

He shot her a look – still cranky then – and retorted, “How’d _you_ get into ballet?”

She smiled back at his crankiness, and settled further into her seat. “When I was four my parents took me to see _[The Nutcracker](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=t56X4W_qz8Q) _ at the Wenzhou Grand Theater. I remember sitting in the seats with them – the theatre was so dark, and it was all so strange and I was so small, but then the lights came up and Clara came on and I was _enchanted_. In my memory, her dance as the Sugar Plum Princess is still the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.” She put a hand on her heart. “Kuan-Yin Su. She’ll always be my hero.”

“And so you started taking ballet lessons.”

“The very next week,” she grinned.

He gave her a grudging almost-smile. “Even as a four-year old your determination was impressive. Or terrifying. I can’t decide which.”

She elbowed him in the side.

“So that’s how you started, but how did it go from there?”

She shot him a bemused glance. “The way it usually does. I kept going.” At his unimpressed look she rolled her eyes. “Fine, we moved to France, I started taking lessons at a small ballet place for a year or two before the lady who ran it brought my parents in and told them I needed to go to the Academy. Because I had ‘talent’.” She shook her head. She could still remember the fear of waiting outside the office for her parents to come back out, not knowing what was happening, while all her friends left with their parents. “Then I went to the Academy.” _Met Chloé_ , she added silently. “Started dancing professionally for a while, and the rest you know.”

“Do you miss it?” he asked curiously, stretching his legs out.

She thought about it. “Sometimes,” she said honestly. “I mean, once ballet’s in your heart it never really leaves you. That first moment, when the lights come on and you face the crowd, that always used to give me a thrill. It was like being four all over again, except this time I was on the other side of the curtain. Not that I didn’t nervous of course. I had a lucky charm from my grandmother that I always had under my costume for good luck.”

“Your grandmother?” he smiled softly.

“Yeah. This little jade charm she gave me,” Mari said softly. “It’s really all I have from her, and I feel like it always brings me luck.”

The mood dipped a little as she thought about how much she missed her. Baking cookies with her – her father had gotten the baking bug from somewhere, after all – sewing with her, her grandmother waving a rolling pin when she got upset. She used to tell the best stories and explain all the things to her that no one else would. When her parents were busy with the bakery they had in Wenzhou she would always stay with her grandma.

“I know how you feel.”

She sighed. “You don’t have to-”

“No,” he insisted. “I actually know how you feel.”

She watched him curiously as he took a deep breath.

When he looked back at her his smile was a little…helpless. “My mom and dad didn’t really have a happy marriage. He basically married her for her money, though she didn’t realise that until later, but she stayed with him because of me.” He shook his head. “I wish she wouldn’t have. After she died my dad threw out all her things. Everything.” His hands started shaking, rage simmering behind his eyes. “I had nothing of hers to hold onto except _one thing._ And it was something he’d never let me keep.”

“I’m sorry,” she said, because what else could she say? She laid a hand on his.

He blew out a shaky breath. “It’s okay.” He forced a smile. “Maybe someday I’ll get it back.”

“I hope you do,” she said quietly.

He was looking at her, and she was looking at him, and then distantly she realised her hand was still on his. She gave herself a shake.

“Okay,” she said brightly. “Now tell me about your mysterious lost years when you were away in England. I never hear much about them.”

He grimaced. “I know. I try to avoid it.”

She looked up at him beseechingly.

“Ugh, fine,” he caved. “But it’s not that interesting.”

She plonked her head in her hands and waited expectantly.

“Let’s just say, I had a bad boy phase-”

“Ooooh.”

“Shut up, or I won’t tell you,” he said coolly. Only when she was silent did he continue. “Anyway, I started getting into the wrong kind of stuff and my father thought the best way to deal with it would be to send me three hundred miles away.”

“Dang.”

He clenched his jaw. “Yeah.” He shrugged. “It was nice in some ways – I got to visit where my mom was born and grew up – but it didn’t really fix the problem.”

“And then you came back and became the most beloved danseur in France?”

“Pretty much,” he said glibly.

When he didn’t add anything, she rolled her eyes and said, “Okay, that didn’t really answer much at all, but I’m letting it slide for the moment in the interest of peace.”

“You don’t have to worry about peace. I’m not angry at you,” he said.

“Yeah,” she eyed him curiously, as she unwrapped her sandwich. “Weird, I thought you would have taken Chloé’s side.”

He was surprised, like _really_ surprised. For a moment he couldn’t say anything at all. Then he said slowly, carefully, “Marinette, you know Chloé and I have been friends a long time, right?”

“I am aware, yes.”

“She’s a good friend.”

Mari raised an eyebrow. “Uh huh.” She took a bite.

Adrien made a frustrated noise. “But she’s not my girlfriend.”

“What?” Mari asked intelligently, as she choked on her sandwich.

“Look, Chloé and I are tight. But she’s asked before and we’ve talked about it. I’m not interested in her as anything other than a friend. She still flirts now and then, yeah, but I think that’s just habit.” He smiled fondly. “Someday someone is going to sweep her off her feet and she won’t know what to do with herself.”

 _As long as that someone isn’t you,_ Mari thought before she could stop herself.

“How did the two of you become friends?” she asked quickly. Because she needed to distract herself. Quickly.

He shrugged. “Her parents got divorced when she was eleven. I think – I think she really idealised her mother. It tore her up a lot when she walked out.”

“Oh,” Mari said succinctly. Because what more was there to say?

“Dead and divorced aren’t the same, but both of lost our mothers.” He shrugged. “I guess we bonded over that before I went away to England.”

“Oh,” she said again. She was really going to have to work on expanding her vocabulary.

He looked at her seriously, “But listen, whatever stuff I say to Chloé, it’s just that-”

“You flirt naturally with everyone,” she smiled kindly. “I know. I’ve learned not to take it personally.”

“What?” He frowned at that. In fact, he looked a little panicked. “No – no you should take it personally-”

“Marinette!”

Mari shot to her feet guiltily as Natalie burst onto the rooftop. Not just because she had completely let herself become distracted by Adrien – which was not a good idea for anybody – but because Natalie sounded stressed. And Natalie never sounded stressed.

“What is it?”

“I need you to get to the Bastille _now_ ,” she ordered. “Some idiot marked the costumes for [Swanhilda’s friends](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=R1QKY7JVnv0&t=) to take back to the Opéra Bastille, and we need them here _five minutes ago_.”

Mari cursed under her breath, already moving towards the exit. “I’ll be back as soon as I can!”

“Hurry!” she called after her.

Mari was halfway down the staircase – taking the turns at a frankly dangerous speed – before she realised Adrien was right behind her.

“Don’t they have goffers for this kind of thing?” he called.

“I am the goffer!” she called back, making the mistake of glancing over her shoulder.

She tripped. Adrien just managed to grab her by the arm.

“Careful,” he snapped. “Or you’re going to break your neck.”

She shrugged him off. “I need to get to from the 9th arrondissement to the 11th and back. Don’t tell me to slow down.” She took off down the stairs.

“I didn’t tell you to slow down I told you to be careful,” she heard him mutter.

“Why are you following me?” she snapped.

“Mari, how many dresses are there for Swanhilda’s friends?”

She put a hand to her temple as they made it to the ground floor and kept going. “Eight.”

“You need my help.”

She glared at him as they ran, but her worry was showing through the cracks. “Adrien, you’re the premier danseur. You’re needed here.”

“We’ve already rehearsed all my parts,” he said bluntly. “You need me more.”

Which was true, but why did he have to go and point it out?

They made it out of the Palais Garnier and onto the street. But the sight of the roads was enough to have her panicking again.

“Mari, _Mari_ calm down. We’ve got time. The show doesn’t start for another few hours.”

“You realise it’s five o’clock. Traffic is insane – how are we supposed to get there and back in time?”

“We’ll make it,” he assured her. And perhaps it was the assurance in his voice that made her believe he was right.

He was right.

They caught the N16 bus and that got them there in twenty minutes. Mari then spent almost as long running through the Bastille halls like a crazy person, trying to figure out where the idiot had put the costumes. They found them eventually – they were hanging in one of the dozens of nondescript clothing racks in the halls outside the sewing rooms, shoved between the costumes for _Sleeping Beauty_ and _Carlotta._ Why they had been put there Mari had no idea. That idiot better pray she never got her hands on them, because if she did it would end in bloodshed. Serious bloodshed. She grabbed one armful of dresses swathed in plastic protectors and Adrien grabbed the other. She actually was glad he was here now, because just four of the monstrosities was enough that she could barely see over them. She might have suffocated under eight. Thankfully, the fates had been kind enough to send a beautiful, blond, ballet prince to her rescue. And oh, wasn’t she thankful indeed.

She was less thankful to realise, when they got back out to the bus stop, that they’d just missed their ride back. So apparently the fates were kind, but not _that_ kind. They only had to wait ten minutes for the next time, but Mari was still in a stoic state of panic. Adrien spent most of their wait, trying to calm her down. Which she found funny, because usually she was the cool, calm, collected on under pressure. Maybe it was having Adrien here to lean on that was making her a little looser with her emotions. She knew if he wasn’t, she’d be hard-faced and ignoring everything until she got the job done. But it was a little nice to have someone she could panic with.

“Mari, it’ll be fine,” he assured her, rubbing a soothing hand up and down her back.

 _Oh dang, that feels lovely,_ she thought, and then, _focus Mari._

“I spent weeks on these dresses, Adrien. Weeks,” she said tightly. “Don’t tell me it’ll be fine.”

“It’ll be fine,” he told her.

She raised an eyebrow at him and found he was biting back a smirk. “Don’t test me boy-”

“Oh look, the bus!” he cried, pointing behind her.

She narrowed her eyes, but was relieved enough that she didn’t call him out on the fact that he sounded like he’d been about to laugh.

Perhaps calling him charitable would be pushing it a bit.

They hopped on the bus, and so did about fifty other people. There weren’t seats for them, so Adrien and Mari had to stand in the middle and hold onto the straps with one hand, and cling to an armful of vengeful dresses with the other. And apologise for hitting someone in the face with the plastic-wrapped horrors every time they turned a corner.

There was one particularly memorable moment, when their bus driver’s enthusiastic gas to brake ratio made Marinette lurch so dramatically, she was worried she’d have to add face-planting in a crowded bus to her repertoire of embarrassing memories. Then Adrien snagged an arm around her waist at the last second, and she was pulled flush against his chest. Her prince. Come to the rescue again.

“Thanks,” she murmured, breathless. Dang his chest was lovely. It felt even lovelier when she was pressed against him so securely, with that pretty, green-eyed gaze looking down at her and-

“You’re welcome,” he coughed, gruffly, quickly letting her go.

They both cleared their throats and avoided looking at each other for a bit.

But yet again, the fates weren’t that kind. They ran into a roadblock just after de Richelieu and the bus came to a halt. This time for good. The passengers started complaining, leaning forward to see what the commotion was in the street. She couldn’t see much with all the people blocking the view, but when she stretched, she could just make out two cars crashed into each other with their drivers out and arguing in the street. Traffic was all blocked up – who knew how long it was going to take to get moving again. She checked her watch.

“Adrien-”

“We’ll have to run,” he said, nudging her towards the exit. “Come on, it can’t be more than ten minutes from here on foot.”

“Okay, okay,” she said, following him off the bus. (Who was she kidding, at this point she’d follow him anywhere).

They emerged onto a busy street, and were immediately assaulted by foot traffic almost as bad. Lots of people had poked their noses out into the street to see what the commotion was.

“Come on!” Adrien flashed her a grin, and then tore off down the street.

She was off after him in a second. They had to duck and dodge pedestrians at every turn, but Mari already felt better to be out and moving. Even when she was very nearly squashed by a group of businessmen that came around the corner and almost blindsided her. She had to flatten herself against the nearest building, clinging to the demon dresses for dear life, but she made it out in one piece. Adrien had similar luck when he jumped over a fallen bicycle and very nearly hit a lady with a pram.

Adrien grabbed her hand at some point, and then they were running hand in hand, laughing hysterically from the adrenaline and the ridiculousness of it all. They didn’t stop until they made it to the theatre – and she was glad she trained, because the Palais Garnier’s steps were _killer_ –  and could dump the clothes with Natalie who rushed off to distribute the dresses to the danseuses. In fact, Mari was still laughing as Adrien pulled her into the hallway by the hand he was still holding, and into a private nook and kissed her.

She was kissing him back before she could think about it. Because when she could think, all she could think about was how badly she’d wanted this and how long she’d wanted this for and now it was here and happening and Adrien was _kissing her._ Her hands came up around his neck to pull him closer eagerly. His lips eased over hers gently, passionately, and God, he was still smiling. _The idiot,_ she thought fondly. Then she gave up thinking entirely because his hands were on her waist, pulling her against him. His hands seemed to burn when he touched her. It filled her with a strange kind of warmth; both frenzy and sweetness.

She pulled back in shock.

“I didn’t think you-”

“I thought _you_ didn’t-”

“I do-”

“So, do I-”

And then they were laughing again. This time it was her that grabbed him, and yanked him down until his lips met hers. Because she had questions for Adrien, but first, she had kisses.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow I started getting serious Phantom of the Opera vibes at the rooftop scene and had to stop and (procrastinate) watch some of the music videos. Doesn’t Adrien remind you of Ralph just a little bit? All that blond hair, and gorgeousness. But I can somehow see Chat Noir as the broken-hearted, mask-wearing phantom. Makes me want to write another au. Marinette would make such a lovely Christine. (As a side-note, I had serious hair envy of her when I was eight, and addicted to this movie).  
> As always, feel free to check out my [To Catch A Cat Burglar Pinterest Board](https://www.pinterest.nz/chocgirlnz/to-catch-a-cat-burglar/).  
> AND THANK YOU FOR ALL YOUR WONDERFUL COMMENTS AND KUDOS. I ABSOLUTELY LOVE THEM AND THEY ARE WHAT INSPIRES ME TO KEEP WRITING.
> 
>  


	6. Coccinelle

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, first off: I AM SO SORRY IT TOOK ME SO LONG TO UPDATE. Partially, life has been pretty crazy intense the last few months and I also took time off this fic to work on editing the story I want to publish, but partially I’m just lazy. So, sorry. Classic writer apology.  
> That said, I hope you enjoy the update and that it’s not a massive let-down after the long wait (*cries tearfully* oh please god, don’t let it be a disappointment). There’s just one chapter after this in which I will try and wrap up all the loose ends, fix any plot holes, and resolve everything I set out to do.  
> Side-note: I went back to look through a few chapters, and oh God, never do that. Because every time you notice a typo you missed during editing, it will slowly eat away at your soul and you’ll start mentally calculating just how many people would have seen it before you fixed it. And let's be honest, it'll probably happen again so I appologise in advance.

Mari was far too calm for opening night.

The rest of the cast and crew were in a state of hype, but she had long since transcended the point of panic. Instead, she wove through the crowd in a fatalistic state of calm. That was probably a bad sign…a really bad sign. But again – fatalistic calm. Right now, she just didn’t care. She had her lucky charm in hand and her earbuds securely in place. Insistent, indignant, [to-hell-with-the-world rap](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_Yhyp-_hX2s) thudded in her eardrums as she made her way to the opera pit. With the stage curtains still firmly closed, this was the only place backstage where she could sneak a peek at the audience.

And what an audience it was. She certainly hadn’t needed to weasel her way here to _hear_ the crowd. The musical rise and fall of chatter carried through the halls like a drug that filled the cast and crew with equal doses of delight and distress. But from here, she could see the brilliant glow of the crystal chandelier, the swish of elaborate gowns, the shine of men’s shoes, the little old ladies’ handbags, the child who ran gleefully from their mother’s hold before a steady hand snatched them back. Amongst the gold and the splendour and the brilliance, it was the noisy mess of people that gave her a glimpse of a world transformed. This was it. The performance had reached its crescendo.

Her parents were out there somewhere, supportive and ready to enjoy the show. Blissfully unaware. They were expecting one of her _creations_ to be danced out on stage. The thought should have twisted her gut with guilt, but when Natalie called for final places, she felt only an intoxicating sense of culmination. One way or another, this would all be over tonight. What she was going to do could quite possibly get her sent to prison, but there was no world in which she could bring herself to sit back and do nothing do nothing about it. Now, whatever happened, happened. She could no longer bring herself to feel guilty over it.

There’d be plenty of time for guilt later.

Chat Noir was out there too. She didn’t know where, but she knew without a doubt he was waiting. Not for her though. For Chloé. Waiting for her to waltz across that stage unguarded and unprepared. Mari’s grip on her jade tightened. Out of the corner of her eye she caught sight of Alya attempting to distract Nino as much as possible before he had to return to his orchestra and his duties. From the enthusiasm with which they were making out, Mari thought her friend was probably quite convincing. Alya pulled away to breath, and noticing Mari, she waved. Nino gave a heavy-lidded, half-nod in her direction, and she half-nodded back.

 _I’ll catch you later,_ she mouthed at them, gesturing backstage. To herself she added, _probably._

She snuck one last look at the lights, let the laughter and the lavishness wash over her. Then she turned her back on it all and descended into the bowels of the theatre. When she reached Chloé’s dressing room, she found it flanked by two hulking security guards. Obscenely buff security guards. Security guards with biceps the size of over-ambitious watermelons, who no doubt gave Hollywood monsters self-esteem issues. One held up an arm to bar her way and she was forced to take a step back. There were more of them lurking in the background, she saw.

“Name?” one asked, low and gravelly. King Kong, she decided to call him.

“Marinette Dupain-Cheng,” she answered, voice perfectly level.

The other guard, whom she decided to nickname Hurly Burly, rapped politely on Chloé’s door, and opened it a crack. Inside they could hear Mr Bourgeois talking quietly to his daughter. Comforting her, it sounded like.

“There’s no need for nerves,” he told her.

Chloé hummed noncommittally.

“You will be exquisite,” he assured, when she remained uncommonly quiet.

Hurly Burly coughed politely. “Mr Bourgeois?

The door opened wider just as Chloé’s gaze snapped up.

“There’s a Marinette Dupain-Cheng here to see you. Should I let her in?” 

Chloé’s face shuttered, growing harsher than it had been before. “Oh, she’s allowed in,” Chloé scoffed. “Someone has to be the help after all.”

“A pleasure to see you Marinette,” Mr Bourgeois said, getting to his feet. “I’ll leave Chloé to you.” He kissed Chloé on the forehead. “Best of luck my beloved.”

He left, and Mari and Chloé faced each other again.

“Ready to wow the crowd?”

“Ready to shut up and do your job?”

Yep, the touching atmosphere of mere moments before was well and truly dead. Mari gave a mocking bow and set about checking over Chloé’s dress. At this point it was curtesy more than anything else. And a convenient reason to be in Chloé’s dressing room. All the real last-minute checks had been completed long before this. But when it came to the

Yep, the touching atmosphere of mere moments before was well and truly dead. Mari gave a mocking bow and set about checking over Chloé’s dress. At this point it was curtesy more than anything – all the last-minute checks had been completed long before this – but it never hurt to make sure everything was in order when it came to the star of the show. Also, it made for a convenient excuse to be in Chloé’s dressing room. She was just steeling herself to make a move when there came a knock at the door.

“Who is it?” Chloé asked. Well, demanded. But for her that was basically the same thing.

“Mr Fu,” came a voice. “With the jewels,” he added.

“Let him in, _of course_ let him in.” Chloé rolled her eyes.

Mari couldn’t help it; her pulse kicked into overdrive the second he mentioned jewels. The door opened, and in stepped a short man with greying hair and eyes that flicked from Chloé to Mari curiously. Well. He didn’t look half as serious as Mari had anticipated. There was something mischievous about his face as he glanced about the room. But she knew from research, and from subtly questioning Sabrina, that Mr Fu was the only person outside the Bourgeois family allowed to lay hands on the jewels. He dealt with their maintenance and care. He also wore a Hawaiian shirt and had a goatee.

So, she was a little unsure how much to worry about him.

“Hello again, Chloé,” Fu said. He turned his smile on Mari. “And who might this be?”

“No one important,” Chloé sighed.

“Marinette,” she offered, with a little wave. “Seamstress. Nice to meet you.”

She wasn’t expecting him to take her hand in both of his and squeeze it tightly. “Delighted to make your acquaintance, Marinette.”

“Alright, everyone’s friends now. Do you want to do what you came here for or shall we have a tea party?”  Chloé asked with a perfectly practiced sneer.

“Pre-show nerves,” Mari fake-whispered to Fu, because really, she wasn’t as nice as people seemed to think she was.

The glare Chloé shot her was lethal. But so, so satisfying.

Without a word, Fu opened the satchel he was carrying and laid a slim, square case on the vanity. “Ladies, I present to you…”

Chloé and Mari leaned in.

“…Le Miraculeux Rubies,” he finished with a whisper.

Oh. _Oh._

Mr Fu stood in silence with a slight quirk to his lips that said he was waiting for their reaction. He was not disappointed. Mari’s jaw dropped and when she tore her eyes away for half a second, she saw Chloé’s eyes practically bugging out of her head. So, whatever she had insinuated, the little princess probably hadn’t been allowed to play with the jewels inside daddy’s vault all that much. That night she’d worn them at the gala might have been the first time she’d ever seen them in person; she was practically drinking in the sight of them now. They both were.

And all Mari could think was…they were bigger than she’d thought they’d be. Over thirty million for a pair of baubles may have seemed like a lot, but up-close Mari could understand the appeal. In the soft light of Chloé’s dressing room, the rubies were practically glowing. Mari found herself mesmerised by the warm, rosy hue that was at once luxurious, yet homely.

“Beautiful, no?” Fu said softly.

“Yes,” Mari breathed, as Chloé carefully laid the rubies in the palm of her hand.

She turned them over, stroking one perfect curve wordlessly. Mari didn’t think she was even breathing. It would have been the perfect moment to make a _precious_ Gollum joke, and yet she couldn’t bring herself to.

“They’re sixteen-point-four carat, round-cut, natural rubies,” Fu informed them. “Perfect in every way except for the slight discoloration that-”

“Makes them look like ladybugs,” Mari finished, eyes still on the jewels.

“Yes.” He shrugged. “Though the spots are so insignificant they are invisible to the naked eye. Still, it was enough to earn them the nickname.”

Mari finally brought her eyes up to meet his gaze. “Where did they come from?”

He smiled. “Would you like to hear a story?”

Mari glanced at Chloé, who was still lost to the world, then back at the unassuming old man in his hideous t-shirt. She nodded.

“There are many tales that surround the jewels, but it is the oldest I find particularly interesting. I bring it with me from China, where the rubies were originally mined. My family have been their caretakers for generations, long before they were cut and mounted in the splendid form you see today.”

“Whereabouts is your family from?”

“Xi’an.”

“My family was from Wenzhou,” she told him.

He smiled at her indulgently. “As the tale is told, no one knows the rubies’ true origin. They have been passed from owner to owner throughout the years. But do you know which other jewel has been their most loyal companion?”

She shook her head.

“The Emerald Cataclysm.”

Mari swallowed. Hard.

He chuckled. “Yes, I see you’ve heard of it. Its theft was quite dramatic, no? But it would not be the first time the emerald or the rubies have been stolen. Sometimes they reappear in the most interesting places…” his eyes took on a far-off look, as if remembering another story. He shook himself. “Anyway. They have often been owned together or considered pieces of a matching set. Many stories speculate as to whether their original owners were lovers or nemeses. No one knows anymore. Only the jewels remember. But there are hundreds of tales of love and betrayal, bloodshed and redemption. There’s a reason the rubies are so often matched with ladybugs, for luck, and the cat-eye-green of the emerald matched with a cat for misfortune. Piáo Chóng and Hēi Māo, they were called.

Hundreds of years ago in Southern China, there lived ladybug named Piáo Chóng. She was very wise, and very old, and she lived at the base of a mountain. No one knew how long she had lived there, but people came from far and wide to ask her advice and receive her blessing. She knew which fields were best for planting, when a proposal would not be met with joy, or when a journey north should be avoided due to a coming storm. The pregnant woman who offered her honey had a safe birth, the second son who offered a willow branch had a safe journey, and the child who dreamed of dancing was brought fame and prosperity.

There was a cat named Hēi Māo who heard of Piáo Chóng’s luck, and he was _desperate_ to meet her. For every way he turned, he was met with misfortune and cursed to inflict it on all who crossed his path. He would run into a milkman and cause him to spill his wares and kick him, he would scare a child whose father then sent his dogs to chase him, he would seek shelter in a barn only to be turned out into the rain. And so, he followed the stories to find Piáo Chóng and ask her for her help.

A merchant was also travelling to see Piáo Chóng, and Hēi Māo feared she would find him more worthy and refuse to aid him with his ill-luck. So, the cunning cat convinced the merchant that Piáo Chóng could be found on the other side of the mountain. With the merchant out of his way, he had secured the ladybug’s undivided attention. When he reached her, he cried, “Piáo Chóng, I have been cursed with misfortune and am chased from everywhere I try to settle. Please help me! How can I be free of it?” Piáo Chóng looked at him and saw what was in his heart. “The crickets sing, the wind blows, and the rains come,” she told him. “Everything serves its purpose, yet you have none. Hēi Māo, hear me when I say – you bring misfortune on yourself.” “How?” he cried plaintively. “Did you not trip the milkman because you were trying to steal his milk? Did you not scare the child because you were trying to steal his food? Were you not cast into the rain because you left the barn door open and caused the farmer’s stock to escape? You have thought only of yourself, and through your selfishness you bring misfortune on you and all who meet you.” “That is not true,” he hissed. “Do not lie to me cat. Even now you tricked the merchant and forced him to go over the mountain. If he dies on that journey, will you care? Or will you care only when that karma falls back on you?”

Hēi Māo hung his head because he knew that she was right. He didn’t want to change. To change required effort, and worst of all, sacrifice. Yet he had so much sorrow in his soul he would do anything to rid himself of this curse, so he could be at peace. “What must I do?” he asked. “Find the merchant, and bring him safely to me,” she said. “Or you know only misery.””

“What happened?” Mari whispered.

Fu smiled. “Hēi Māo saved the merchant and brought him to Piáo Chóng to be blessed. Afterwards he settled on the mountain with her, to aid her in her work. As it turned out, his ‘curse’ could be used very conveniently against villain who wanted to use her gifts for ill. He protected her, and in turn she helped him know peace.”

Mari was silent. She wasn’t sure what she was supposed to take away from that. The weight of the fable had settled around her shoulders like a blanket; old and worn and familiar, yet heavy in its weight. Coming back to reality felt like trying to shake that blanket off. Like resurfacing from a dream and attempting to rub the grit of make-believe from her eyes. The room felt like it had changed. What once had been bright and airy was now shadowed by stories and characters long gone. It felt like a church. Where no one could bring themselves to speak above a whisper.

“Well that’s just great,” Chloé said, baring him teeth in a smile. “Now if you don’t mind, some of us have a show to put on.” She made shooing motions at them.

Mari blinked, as if in a daze, and got stiffly to her feet.

“Of course,” Master Fu said smoothly. “I look forward to the performance.”

Was it just Mari, or did he glance at her when he spoke? But then he was gone before she could open her mouth. He’d already slipped out the door. Likely he’d only return at the end of the performance when security would escort him with the jewels back to the vault. She followed him out, leaving Chloé to her primping and to her _precious_. Outside, she found the security had doubled. She made awkward eye contact with King Kong, and hurriedly scuttled away.

It was only when she rounded the corner that she realised she needed to brush up on her Chinese. Because in her head she’d been confusing ‘Hēi Māo’ with ‘Huài Māo’ – ‘bad cat’. But that wasn’t it at all. Fu had not said ‘bad cat’, but ‘ _black_ cat’. Mari shuddered.

She didn’t believe in coincidence.

~

Mari ran into Adrien at the stage’s edge. You know, _where the danseurs_ were. In hindsight, she really should have thought of that since she was trying to avoid him. Not that she was trying to avoid him – not consciously anyway – but maybe a part of her would have preferred not to run into him. Not before she did what she was about to do. Adrien was a good person after all. A really, really good person.

He deserved better than someone like her.

“Marinette,” he smiled softly, and oh gosh, was he _blushing?_

Scratch that, she was blushing too; she could feel it. She had thought she was the past the age for this. But she could still remember how soft his lips were on hers. God, how could she forget? She’d never thought before that boys’ lips could be so soft. Just the memory made her want to do stupid things like cock her head and bat her eyelashes and lean into the safety of his broad shoulders.

So naturally, she thumped him on the arm and grunted, “Try to knock ‘em dead, okay?”

Adrien flashed her an arrogant smile. “Like I need to try.”

She crossed her arms. “Careful,” she said, fighting a smile. “Your head still needs to be small enough to fit onstage.”

“Admit it,” his smile grew wider, and slowly, so slowly, he looped his fingers through her belt buckles and pulled her towards him. “You think I’m cute, big head and all.”

She uncrossed her arms and hooked them gently around his neck. She wished she could stay right here. “I will neither confirm nor deny.”

He bent down until he could whisper in her ear, “You’re cuter.”

That was debatable. Though she had found herself lingering over her outfits lately. That was less debatable. If someone had called her out on it, she’d never admit to it. But she wanted to look cute. So what? This evening she’d gone all-Audrey with a red sweater tucked into high-waisted jeans, and her hair scooped up in a high bun with a scarf tied around it. If he only knew what she’d be wearing next.

She rolled her. “You big cheese ball.”

He kissed her lightly on the neck and her breath hitched. Okay, so neck kisses. Neck kisses were a thing she liked. The more you know.

“I’ll see you after the show,” he breathed.

_You’ll see me sooner._

She nodded tightly and released him. He stepped back, but then paused. “Are you okay?”

“Mm hmm.”

He frowned, but on set the music changed and he glanced away, distracted. “Mari-”

“Go on, Franz” she urged him, giving his shoulder a light shove. “Swanhilda needs you.”

He shot her one last assessing look, and then he was gone. He strode onto that stage like he owned it. And he did. Because when he danced, no one could look away. She watched numbly, as he leapt across stage in a quick series of tight jetés. Breath-taking.

 _Far, far too good for me,_ she thought.

From the shadows she watched and waited as the acts passed by like clockwork. Franz and Swanhilda had planned to marry during the festival so they could receive a monetary reward, but then Franz noticed the beautiful Coppélia sitting up in Dr Coppelius’ upper window. He hadn’t even known the crazy inventor had a daughter. And Franz…Franz was smitten. Coppélia would not respond to any of his advances though, nor Swanhilda’s jealous overtures of ‘friendship’. Coppélia was so life-like, none of them realised it was a doll seated at the window. (Actually, it was Suzy Moreau, Chloé’s understudy. After all, somebody had to play Coppélia while Chloé was busy being Swanhilda). Then Swanhilda got upset (understandably, when her fiancé was doing his darnedest to flirt with someone else), she and Franz had their big blowout via an ear of wheat (which: weird, but to each their own), and then she ran off. (And promptly demanded a macchiato before she had to be back on stage). And Franz…sweet, dear, stupid Franz, decided that instead of being smart and going to smooth things over with his fiancé, decided it would be a good idea to climb Coppélia’s balcony instead.

Marinette had never understood what Swanhilda saw in him.

Heartbroken, Swanhilda and her friends found Dr Coppelius’ key and snuck into his workroom, so she could discover Coppélia’s secrets. What they found however, was far worse. Coppelius’ room was full of creepy, lifeless dolls (who also happened to be the finest set of back-up dancers in Paris). Then Coppelius walked in and was _not_ pleased when he discovered them. He threw the girls out in anger. All but one. Because Swanhilda has safely hidden herself behind the curtain. Out of Coppelius’ line of sight, Mari and the audience watched her come face to face with Coppélia. Coppélia…who was also a doll.

Cue the inventor spotting Franz climbing in through his balcony (um, guilty much?), and inviting him inside so he could sacrifice the idiot’s soul to bring his daughter to life. Mari was almost sad she had to leave at this part. The scene where Coppelius poisoned Franz was her favourite. Smoke curled across the stage as Swanhilda watched from her hiding spot in horror. When Mari looked down, she could see Nino’s arms waving like a madman as he led his orchestra through their most complex piece. Shrouded in smoke and lit up by the stage lights in purple and green, the effect was downright sinister, and creepy as heck. Mari _loved_ it. Then Chloé ducked back behind the curtain, and there it was: the moment the story changed.

Mari was on the move the second Swanhilda was safely hidden. She had a short window. Chloé would be racing to her dressing room to change costumes and don the jewels. Marinette followed behind like a shadow.

At the door she ducked her head, “I’m here to help Chloé,” she said.

King Kong and Hurly Burly nodded her in.

Chloé was facing away from the door. Mari padded softly towards her. The princess was bent over the jewels, releasing them from their case. Distracted then. Good. Mari whipped the gag over Chloé’s head and secured it in place. She had the blindfold on her before Chloé could even turn to see her attacker. She struggled, panicking and landing and an elbow to Mari’s gut. But Mari had eight years of Shaolin Kung Fu training. She was stronger. She’d wrestled her to the ground and zip-tied her to a chair far away from anything she could kick in no time.

Only then did she allow herself to panic.

Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, _fuck._ She was going to prison. Mari was actually going to go to prison. Oh god, her father was going to cry, and it would be terrible. How did things escalate to this point? She was literally a criminal now. She picked up the fallen rubies and watched them glitter coldly in her palm. And theft. Can’t forget billion-dollar theft.

But there was no time for second guesses. Mari donned the red Coppélia dress as quickly as she could. It fit her like a glove. She untied her headscarf to reveal her dark locks done up just like the wig. Then came the mask, the pointe shoes she’d so painstakingly broken in, and then…then Le Miraculeux Rubies. Her hands shook as she put them on. There was no turning back now. She secured her lucky charm under the folds of her skirt, and then she was good to go. The whole thing had taken less than two minutes tops.

How time flies when you’re committing a felony.

She ducked her head as she left the room, only opening the door and crack and shutting it behind her quickly, lest they notice a very distinct body in there.

“Miss Bourgeois,” King Kong nodded.

“Package is on its way,” Hurly Burly said into his mic, as the group of men surrounded her. “Keep an eye out for Chat Noir. He could be anywhere.”

Anywhere indeed. Mari’s sharp eyes cut left and right as they escorted her to stage. She stepped behind Coppélia’s curtain and knew that Chat Noir would be targeting Chloé between her stepping on that stage and leaving it. He had one scene in which to make his move. It was the only time the rubies wouldn’t be in a locked room or under armed escort. It was the only –

The curtain snapped back, and Mari froze.

There was Franz, slumped over the table. There was Doctor Coppelius, waiting to see if his ‘daughter’ had come to life. And there were the two-thousand people who’d unwittingly paid to see a lie.

Everyone was holding their breath. Everyone had their eyes were on her.  

Mari took one halting step forward. Then another. Coppelius beamed in triumph and raised his hands to the skies. While his back was turned, Coppélia gave the audience an exaggerated wink and touched a finger to her lips. Because she was not Coppélia, but Swanhilda in disguise, come to save her fickle fiancé. (Or rather, Marinette in disguise as Chloé dressed up as Swanhilda disguised as Coppélia to save the show from Chat Noir). And suddenly none of it mattered. Not the audience. Not the blinding lights. Not the security stationed at every exit. Onstage, she was four years old again and watching her first ballet. There was only her and the dance.

She became Coppélia.

Her movements were stiff and slow at first, a machine coming to life. Coppelius circled her in delight as her arms jerked up and down, she spun a pirouette, and stood on pointe. While his back was turned she risked a worried glance at Franz, jerking back again as the inventor’s attention returned to her. Then the dance became more fluid, the music growing playful. She was no longer a puppet now, but a young woman. Her movements were graceful and easy and by god did she give this her everything. Each point was perfect, each pirouette as she bewitched the inventor and the audience alike. She came alive under the spotlight, letting the music seep into her bones and become her very soul.

Then Coppélia grinned and one by one she turned on the mechanical dolls as she danced. Coppelius was horrified. He ran after her, but she only laughed as she danced and wove through the chaos she had created. Franz jerked to his feet, like a marionette pulled by invisible strings. His head lolled to the side, his eyes half-lidded, as he joined the dance. He was just another soulless doll at the mercy of the music.

Coppélia glanced over her shoulder at the inventor, as he disappeared in and out of the mess of puppets. The audience too, disappeared from sight while she was surrounded by the whirlwind of dancers. She was so focused on the dance, she hardly remembered to be on her guard for Chat Noir.

And then she felt hands reaching for the rubies. Just the ghost of a touch – something she wouldn’t even have noticed in the frenzy had she not been in a state of hypervigilance. _Chat Noir._ Lightning-fast she grabbed one of the hands and turned around to look…

…right into Adrien’s pretty, green eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *gasps* Adrien? Who would have known?!?!?!  
> Please leave comments if you want to rant at me about plot holes, ask questions, or anything else. Love y'all xx  
> P.S.: Fun fact, I find angry rap music incredibly calming when stressed out, which is why I also gave Mari this particular attribute. Anyone else do this too?


	7. Consequences

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And finally my dears, we come to the end.
> 
> My apologies that this took so long. I was on holiday for a month (guess who got to visit Paris and see the Palais Garnier in person, baby!) and laid out ridiculously sick before and after. Plus, life. Yikes. Anyhoo, hopefully the fact that this is a ~~monster~~  larger-than-usual chapter makes up for it.
> 
> Enjoy!

_Or else you will know only misery._

The scalding water ran down Mari’s back and she watched it disappear down the drain. She felt raw. She felt like she needed to be scorched clean.

From her speakers, one of the [piano/cello covers](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xlrjXZEQ_s0) Nino had lent her was playing over the noise of the spray, the sweet clean notes at odds with her ugly tangle of emotions. Because she was a mess. The whole situation was. Now that she was hidden away from the spotlights, now that all the drama was played out and done, she no longer felt numb, but stripped bare. Vulnerable. Like no matter how long she stood under the pouring spray, she couldn’t get _clean._

Running her hands over her face she thought, _how could this have happened?_

~

_Then_

Mari looked in Adrien’s green eyes and Adrien gazed into her blue ones, and in that moment, they knew. They just knew. It wasn’t the pretty Agreste prince she was looking at, and those baby blues watching him didn’t belong to Chloé.

“Chat?” she choked.

“Mari?”

She dropped his hand like it had grown claws. And it might as well have. The memory of his talons against her throat was still fresh in her memory. But Adrien panicked and surged forward, capturing her by the waist and leading her into the dance. This wasn’t part of the script. Swanhilda was supposed to be tormented by the puppet Franz – then again, Adrien’s embrace _was_ a torment to her. A bittersweet irony there. He kept his puppet act as he led her through the twisted dance amidst Coppelius’ frenzied dolls. An actor to the last.

But she knew better now – she’d seen behind the mask. She knew he was only interested in the rubies.

“Let go,” she gasped.

“Mari, please-” Adrien tried.

She didn’t hear it. Not because she didn’t want to. But because that was the moment the lights went out and the theatre plummeted into darkness. It was no accident. She knew as surely as she knew it was her feline frenemy in front of her, that whatever play this was it had been concocted by Chat Noir. A back-up, perhaps, to catch Chloé unawares. But it wasn’t Chloé he was faced with. It was her.

The second the lights went out she was already tearing herself away from Chat – tearing the rubies away from Adrien, god, _Adrien_ – and running. A hand swiped out for her in the darkness and she went down, smacking her head on the ground. Not badly, but enough to stun her a second. She shook herself and crawled across the stage, wincing when a foot connected with the soft flesh of her thigh. Even in the darkness she knew where the stage exits where, where the guards were. Their lines were tight, but she was a slim girl. Slight enough to squeeze between two guards focused on preventing someone getting on the stage rather than off it.

The lights came back on suddenly, comforting and unsettling all at once. She was no child, who could be comforted by the presence of a light after stumbling blindly in the dark. Now there was only blind confusion and fear. Onstage she could hear the danseur who played Coppelius loudly lamenting where Coppélia had gotten to; rousing the audience after the disturbance. It couldn’t have been more than a few seconds. But when they were spent scrambling in the dark while the man she’d – the man she _thought_ she’d – reached for her?

They felt like the longest of her life.

She didn’t think. She only ran, her legs carrying her back to the dressing room as quickly as they were able. Chloé let out a noise of alarm when she heard the door open. Mari paused. But the little blonde princess was still trussed up like a pig, her back to the door. So Mari set about her business. The mask came off. The dress was discarded, back to its rack. The rubies placed in their case with care. She changed out of her shoes and her things and she put herself perfectly back in place. Just like nothing had happened. But it felt like putting a mask on, rather than taking one off, and she wondered, disconcertedly, if this was what Chat Noir felt like before one of his performances. Then she opened the door, paused, and shut it again. Enough to make it sound, to Chloé’s straining ears, like the villain had left. And she carefully lay down behind Chloé, as quiet as a mouse.

When the guards thundered through the doors less than a minute later, they found Chloé zip-tied to a chair and Mari, by all accounts, ‘unconscious’. The lump already forming on her skull certainly didn’t seem to hurt matters. They shook her awake. They untied Chloé and removed the gag – though they may have regretted it, because once it was off there was no shutting her up. She was free to complain as much as she wanted to. And she did. Loudly, and at length. But it all felt as if it was happening underwater. Like there was a veil between her and the things happening around her which left them blurry and indistinct.

“Mari? Marinette?” Madame was asking. The bump to her noggin was apparently convincing enough to be downright worrying. So, Chat was good for something after all.

She nodded back numbly. It was enough. They went back to talking over and around her, treating her as if she wasn’t there. And that was fine by her. They assumed Chat Noir had knocked her out, and she didn’t dissuade them of the notion. She didn’t even have to pretend to be traumatised. She was shaking, and she could barely speak. She was.

At some point they led her off and she ended up in a room with Madame, Mr Bourgeois, Sabrina’s father, another young detective, and a handful of security guards. And Adrien. Always Adrien. It was late after the show, which had continued, though there had been noises about stopping it due to Chat Noir’s attempt. Noises that were utterly drowned out by Chloé of course. Because the rubies were safe, and she wouldn’t take no for an answer. _“I have a show to finish,”_ she’d snapped, and made a beeline for the stage.

As soon as she was gone the arguing started; it was still going when she got back. Mari wasn’t sure how much time had passed. Her eyes had never left Adrien. Chat. Whoever he was. She sat in the close room, wrapped in a blanket – for shock, the detective had told her – and she’d thought she wouldn’t be able to look him in the eye, but it turned out she couldn’t look away. Somewhere in that golden boy there was something dark and savage and twisted. And now she knew it was there she wanted to know where one ended and the other began. Where claw met bone and that Cheshire grin became something winsome and dimpled.

“How did he get past security?” Mr Bourgeois demanded.

“Perhaps there was a breach-” Madame suggested.

“There was no breach,” King Kong snapped. “We made sure of it.”

“Then an inside job-”

“Chat Noir-” he began but was interrupted by Chloé bursting into the room. She was still in costume, sweating from the stage, and she looked angry as hell.

“Forget Chat Noir,” she snapped. “I want to know who the hell stole my dance. That was the _main piece._ ”

“There’ll be other nights,” her father consoled her. “You’ll have other chances to perform it-”

“-It was _mine,_ ” she snarled.

And it had been. Mari had stolen the title dance from Chloé’s opening night, just like Chat Noir had stolen pretty baubles and trinkets. Just like he’d stolen her heart.

“Never mind that,” the young detective said, blowing her off. “What’s important here is that Chat Noir got away, _again_ , and we have no idea how he did it.”

“Like I said, perhaps an inside job?” Madame proposed, and her words set off a chain-reaction of bickering.

“How would that explain the lighting-?”

“And who would even have access to that-?”

“The planning-”

“-never would have suspected-”

“-do you think he-”

“I don’t know how we’re supposed to feel safe-”

“-but the rubies-”

“-clearly failed-”

“-how-”

“- _who_ -”

The noise and clamour was enough to nettle under Mari’s skin and set her teeth on edge. Their words tripped over one another, multiplying and swelling until the room was suffocating under their weight. Until Mari had had-

“Enough,” she snapped. 

They all turned to look at her. She didn’t blame them. She hadn’t spoken a word in hours. But the time for silence had passed.

She fixed her gaze on Adrien.

“It was him.”

~

_Now_

The [song changed](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=k1eFZbUnqiM), and Mari finally got out. She turned off the shower. Changed into soft clothes. Her every movement concise and mechanical, designed to take as little brain-power as possible. But no matter what she did she couldn’t stop the memories from coming. One at a time they washed over her until she felt like she was drowning.

_“I wasn’t aware you knew my name.”_

_He frowned. “You work for my father.”_

_“Shut up and do as I say.”_

_“Bossy.”_

_“I have to be,” she muttered. “I work with Chloé.”_

_“You should have seen your face,” he wheezed._

_“Shut up,” she snapped. “You do not want to piss off the girl currently in possession of multiple sharp objects.”_

_“I’d love to see you dance.”_

_“Brilliant,” Adrien breathed. “You’re brilliant.”_

_“He’s an ass…but he has a great ass, so that kind of makes up for it.”_

_“You know you can talk to me about anything, right?”_

_She smiled tightly. “Sorry Adrien, but for once you’re not someone I can talk to about this.”_

_“You know, I’ve been thinking…”_

_“Always dangerous,” she quipped. “Don’t strain yourself.”_

_“Let’s just say, I had a bad boy phase-”_

_“Ooooh.”_

_“Adrien, you’re needed here.”_

_“You need me more.”_

_“Admit it. You think I’m cute, big head and all.”_

_“I will neither confirm nor deny.”_

_“Mari? Are you okay?”_

_“Go on, Franz. Swanhilda needs you.”_

_“Mari?”_

_“Chat?”_

She clutched her bed, bent double under the weight of each perfect, poignant memory. She couldn’t deal with it. She couldn’t deal with any of them. And on top of it all she’d lost her lucky charm on opening night. Probably in chaos of the chase and the dark. Her heart ached at the thought, because her charm…it was the last thing she had from her grandma – her _nǎinai_. Losing it _hurt._

But she pushed all thoughts aside. She currently had two options in front of her. In the first, she could go downstairs, see her parents, and go to work. Which would be practical and smart. But Mari wasn’t operating on practical or smart right now. Instead she chose the second option, because it was the only one she felt capable of right now.

She crawled back into bed.

~

_Then_

The room turned as one to see who she was pointing at.

“Who?” Mr Bourgeois asked. And bless him, he even did a confused little doubletake. Like she might be pointing at someone _behind_ their beloved golden boy.

“Adrien?” Chloé scoffed.

Everyone chuckled, waiting for the punch line...and then none came.

“Wait – seriously?” Chloé asked. “Are you _crazy_?”

And from the looks she was getting, Chloé wasn’t the only one thinking it. Except Detective Raincomprix. He looked like he was actually considering it for a moment, but she supposed in his line of work he was used to keeping an open mind.

“Marinette dear, I think you hit your head a little too hard,” Madame gently.

Because it was so crazy; the idea that Adrien Agreste and Chat Noir were one and the same. One of them was faultless, and the other filthy. The saint and the sinner. Whatever joke she was obviously trying to pull, no one found it very funny…then they realised she wasn’t joking. The admonishments came from all sides.

“Are you serious?”

“Mari you’re out of your mind.”

“Miss Dupain-Cheng, that’s a serious accusation,” Raincomprix said softly, leaning forward. “Do you have any proof?”

She had none.

Of course she had none. Chat was a ghost and she was the fool left holding nothing. No way to convince them, no clever deduction or sparkling wit. She wasn’t the Columbo in this scenario; she wasn’t even the Clouseau. And the worst part was, the only way to prove she was right would be to catch him in the act, and after tonight he certainly wouldn’t be coming out to play.

Raincomprix and the rest of them just sat there, waiting for her answer. But she couldn’t speak. Her eyes were locked on Adrien, and he hadn’t taken his eyes off her since she entered the room. It was like they were two magnets, drawn to one another. Like now that they’d _seen_ each other they couldn’t look away. Only problem was, when she looked at him she remembered how it felt to have his hands around her throat and threats to her family whispered in her ear. Her family who had served him pastries the very next day with their hearts on their sleeves. Everything she’d ever shared with Adrien felt ruined now. That’s who Chat Noir was. He was a ruinor. A ruinor of things, of people.

And god, she’d had his tongue down her throat.

This must be how Tristan and Isolde felt. But she could see it in their faces that there was no way she was going to convince them. They already knew what they thought was the truth. Adrien Agreste was a stand-up guy, a swell dude, an excellent member of society. Golden, perfect, clever, talented. And she had nothing against him but her word.

They were waiting for her reply and she couldn’t say no. If she said that, they’d dismiss her at best and arrest her for slander at worst. But they’d let him go and she couldn’t let Chat Noir get away with nothing. After this the rubies would be locked back up safe and sound and he’d never get his claws into them again. But he’d still be out there. And one night not so far away, he’d find her, he’d find her in some dark alley, or he’d find her parents and – and she didn’t want to finish that thought. There was only one way to convince them.

She could tell the truth.

She saw it in his eyes the second Adrien realised what she was about to do: tell the truth of what had really taken place tonight. Yes, she’d be arrested alongside him, but at this point that would be a sweet relief. She’d committed a crime, she was guilty, why shouldn’t she suffer for it? The only aggravating part would be the waste of the perfect lie she’d taken such lengths to convince them of. But her mind was full of Piáo Chóng and of consequences.

Adrien shook his head. Just a small movement, but it was enough. Even now, he was silently begging her not to out him. His face was pale and drawn, and there was nothing of that sunshine child she had joked about with Alya so many times. She took a deep breath. Opened her mouth to speak –

“It’s true.”

She blinked. The words had come from Adrien’s mouth. Had he just admitted the truth? The rest of the room was as stunned as she was, looking back and forth between them. Clearly wondering if they had heard what they’d thought they’d heard. And Mari – she could only sit and watch as Adrien confessed. _Everything._

“It’s true. I’m Chat Noir.” He turned to Chloé. “I’m sorry, I never meant to hurt you. I know that’s not a good excuse. I didn’t want to. None of this was my idea.”

A tear slid down his cheek and for a moment she bitterly resented it. Because it was pathetic, but his tears were something all her empty words could never be. They were _convincing._

“Adrien…tell me it’s not true,” Chloé said quietly.

“I’m sorry – I’m so sorry but it is.” And god, he said it like he was so, so tired.

Mr Bourgeois glanced between them in confusion. “But he can’t be – he isn’t – he’s not…”

“Adrien,” Raincomprix said. “If what you’re saying is true, I need you to know that this conversation will be used for your arrest. Do you understand what you’re confessing to?”

“I do,” Adrien said miserably.

“Then I’m going to need you to start at the beginning, son,” he said.

He laughed humourlessly. “That’s going to take quite some telling, detective.”

“I’m going to need a why.”

He shrugged helplessly. “I started acting out after my mother died. I was dumb; I know that now. But I don’t know, maybe I wanted attention. I didn’t get it,” he said, with the bitter twist to his lips that Mari had come to associate with mentions of his father. “So, I started playing around at being invisible. I could take things, tiny things, nothing valuable. It gave me a thrill to know I could get away with it. I was just shoplifting at first, but then my father kept dragging me to social functions – the ballet, the opera, all the glitz and glamour – and suddenly I was stealing bigger things. A bracelet here, a ring there…I was so good at it. I’ve always been so good at it.”

“Adrien…” Madame said.

The detectives were watching him with eagle eyes. They all were. Mari still couldn’t look away.

“I almost got caught once. Butter fingers. But the person I’d stolen it from thought they’d dropped it and they _thanked me._ I didn’t try anything again for a long time after that. But then I did. You don’t understand, it was like this itch under my skin, this compulsion I couldn’t fight. Because – because when I was doing it I wasn’t thinking about her-” his voice choked, like he couldn’t breathe “-about her smile and her golden hair, or how she was a terrible cook but great hugger, and how she could do a killer Disappointed tone, but I always knew she loved me, even when she told me off. God, I missed her so much. And then my father finally caught me and sent me to England to straighten me out. Which didn’t really work, but it was a distraction. And when I came home the compulsion had settled into the mom-shaped hole in my life and I didn’t know what else to do. I started planning how I was going to steal things. Going after bigger and bigger takes. That’s when I met le Papillion.”

The detectives’ interest doubled in intensity.

“When I stole the Emerald Cataclysm, it caught his attention. I was going to give it back – the only fun in a heist is pulling it off, after all – but he _needed_ it for his collection. And he decided he wanted me to work for him. That’s when everything spiralled out of control. Suddenly I – I was very much out of my depth. I was sick with it. I felt like a child, but there was no adult I could go to. My father couldn’t help me, and I don’t know if he even would have. More than anything I just wanted-”

_My mother._ He didn’t have to finish the sentence for Mari to know how he would have finished it. _Fuck,_ she thought. Just hearing that made her want to take him home and squash him in a Dupain-Cheng family sandwich. She was sure her parents would be more than happy to oblige. But it wasn’t just Adrien sitting in front of her, it was Chat.

“So, I stole for le Papillion,” he said. “I didn’t have a choice. He knew who I was and…well, I guess you always have a choice. But he could expose my identity, and more than that, he had something a wanted _desperately._ ”

“What was it?” Raincomprix asked.

Adrien fell silent. His shoulders hunched in on themselves and he suddenly looked so very, very small. He’d been honest up until now, but this truth seemed to hurt more than the others.

“…A brooch belonging to my mother,” he admitted softly. “It was stolen a few years back – one of his other puppet thieves no doubt – and it’s the only thing I have left of her. Up until le Papillion started boasting that he had it, I wasn’t even sure it had really been stolen. I half-thought my father might have thrown it out. He’d thrown out all of her other things, but then again, her money was the reason why he married her. I _had_ to get it back. And he said if I wanted it, I’d have to do as he said.”

“So, he said jump…”

“And I jumped.” Adrien shrugged.

Raincomprix nodded and got to his feet, like he’d heard everything he needed. Mari didn’t really register what he was doing until he had a hand on Adrien’s shoulder and the cuffs in his hands.

“Adrien Agreste, you’re under arrest for multiple accounts of burglary, breaking and entering, bodily assault-”

Mari winced internally at that one. After all, the ‘assault’ had technically been due to her own clumsiness. Chat Noir had never harmed her…but then again, he had. Because why else would it feel like someone had forced a hand between her ribs and was squeezing her heart too tight?

Adrien got to his feet numbly and put his hands behind his back for them to cuff. The bound his hands. They _bound his hands._ Chloé made a sound of distress Mari was inclined to agree with. She watched those delicate wrists shackled and wanted to be sick.

Even Mr Bourgeois looked pained. “Is this really necessary officers? It’s le Papillion you want.”

“But we don’t have him,” the younger detective pointed out. “The man’s a ghost. We need someone to bring in.”

Raincomprix lowered his head to gaze at Adrien seriously. “Unless there’s something else you want to tell us son?”

Adrien shook his head. “I don’t know anything. I wish I did, but I don’t.”

The younger detective didn’t look impressed, or particularly convinced either. Raincomprix just looked disappointed. Mari’s internal organs still had that masticated feel to them, and it only got worse as they pulled Adrien roughly to his feet.

“Then I guess your days in the spotlight are over,” the young detective snapped.

The door slammed open and everyone jumped. Even the detectives. _Especially_ the detectives. Because standing in the doorway, simmering with rage, was none other than Gabriel Agreste.

“Oh shit,” Raincomprix muttered.

Because they might have the law on their side, but no one wanted to take on Papa Agreste, billion-dollar fashion tycoon and socialite. Gabriel stormed towards them and the detectives hurriedly stood their ground. But it wasn’t them he was after.

Gabriel grabbed his son by the shoulders and shook him hard enough to rattle his teeth. “You _fool_. You absolutely useless, good-for-nothing fool.”

Well this was certainly a surprise.

“Wha-?” Adrien managed, but Gabriel was on a roll.

“I can’t even begin to fathom the depths of your incompetence,” Gabriel snarled, and shook him again for emphasis.

Everyone else was paralysed with that special kind of awkwardness reserved for when a friend’s parent yelled at them in public. Mari had seen Gabriel scold Adrien before, and she knew as a parent he was stern, but never had she seen him this livid. She’d never witnessed him lose control.

The young detective tried to step in. “Sir, I think if you just-”

“How could you fail me?” Gabriel was practically spitting now. “The rubies are on their way back to their vault, and they are never going to see the light of day again in this lifetime. Do you understand? _Do you_?”  

Mari certainly didn’t. And Adrien didn’t either if his confusion – mixed in with a mess of hurt – was anything to go by.

Raincomprix’s eyes narrowed however. “Mr Agreste, are you saying-?”

“How could you fail to steal le Miraculeux Rubies when stealing is the one thing you’re good for?”

Adrien’s eyes were wide now. “…Dad?” his voice broke. “What are you saying?”

Raincomprix’s voice dropped low. “Mr Agreste, I should warn you, by what you’re indicating it sounds as if you’re confessing to being le Papillion himself…”

Gabriel turned his wild eyes on them. “Le Papillion? A criminal of cunning and great prestige? Far better than some common, soft-hearted thief.” He whirled on his son, his eyes incensed. He’d lost his mind. “It’s pathetic – you’re even bad at being bad.”

“Dad? Dad say it’s not true. I men, you’re not a criminal. You’re not-”

_The man who blackmailed me. The man who stole the only precious thing in the world from me. The monster who’s been controlling my life and manipulating my actions from the shadows for years._ There was a lot to choose from. Mari wouldn’t have been sure where to start. She might be numb, but god, Gabriel looked as if he was finally coming alive.

“At least I accomplished something,” Gabriel hissed, as Raincomprix laid a heavy hand on his shoulder. “I nearly had all five of le Miraculeus together in one place. Do you know the last time that happened? They were supposed to be _mine_. And you ruined it at the last moment. You ruined everything!”

Tears were leaking from Adrien’s eyes as he turned horrified eyes on his father – his puppeteer.

“ _Worthless_ ,” Gabriel spat, shaking the handcuffed Adrien violently. “Just like your mother.”

Adrien let out a broken noise. Almost enough to thaw the ice around Mari’s heart. Then the detective was putting a pair of cuffs on Gabriel and leading him away. Even as he read him his rights, Gabriel was ranting over him, passionate to the point of crazed. That left Raincomprix with Adrien, but when he moved to lead the boy off – _like father like son_ – Madame spoke up.

“Surely this isn’t necessary?” she asked. “The poor boy’s been manipulated as much as anyone else.”

“This _boy_ ,” Raincomprix stressed the word, “is also a felon.”

“Blackmailing a seventeen-year old into theft and perjury? His own _father?_ ” Madame shook her head. “Roger, please. That’s coercion of a minor at best.”

“He’s not a minor anymore,” Raincomprix argued, tightening his grip on his catch. “He hasn’t been for some time.”

“But he’s given everything back.”

They all looked up in surprise. It was Mr Bourgeois himself who had spoken. “Yes, Roger. People talk. All those rubies and gems and baubles he took, he gave right back. Why?”

The detective looked at Adrien. “Well, why?”

Adrien shrugged. “They weren’t the ones he was after. He didn’t need them.” There were still tears running silently down his cheeks.

“So you snuck back in to put things back where you found them.”

“It was almost a better challenge,” Adrien said with a broken smile.

“We have to bring in somebody-”

“You have somebody,” Madame argued. “You have le Papillion, you have someone for your murder cases.”

“Raincomprix,” Bourgeois said in his Mayor voice. The one that brokered no room for opposition. “You’re going to let him go, and we, all of us, are going to agree that what’s been said in this room stays in this room.” He turned to Adrien. “Unless you plan on thieving again?”

“Never again.” He shuddered.

Mr Bourgeois spread his hands wide. “Then I’m not going to press charges. And neither will Chloé.” He laid a soft hand on her shoulder. She was still sniffling and had been since the beginning of Adrien’s tale. Then he glanced at Mari “Do you plan on laying a complaint?”

Mari hesitated, but shook her head. How could she, when her assault hadn’t been Chat Noir’s crime.

“There you have it,” Mr Bourgeois said. And he had that hard look on his face, a look that he’d gotten partway through Gabriel’s speech about how little his child meant to him. When Chloé was his whole world. “He’s given back everything he’s taken. _Let the boy go._ ”

Raincomprix looked like he wanted to argue, but it was perhaps a little different coming from his mayor. He took the cuffs off Adrien, who rubbed absently at his wrists. It was a nice gesture, but he still looked broken, still crying.

God, she wished she could hate him.

~

_Now_

Of course, some things looked clearer with time. Some things made more sense when you took a step back. Untangled yourself. Thought clearly about the situation. That footage they had of Chat Noir – the only footage they’d ever been able to get of him – had always seemed too convenient to her, too easy. And it was. Because Adrien had wanted them to have it. Wanted to be caught. Wanted it to all be over.

These were the thoughts that Mari awoke to sometime later. She sighed. A nap wasn’t a fix-all for the problems of the world, but it was a good start. It gave her the strength to do the things she’d been avoiding. First, that meant checking her phone. She had a ridiculous number of messages. Truly. Ridiculous. Some were well-wishes or other messages from the cast and crew, a few from Nino that she studiously ignored, but most of them were from Alya.

None from Adrien.

She opened Alya’s. They started off with the general demands after her health and sanity – with far too many capitals and not enough punctuation – and devolved entirely into links to websites and articles. The news that Gabriel Agreste was le Papillion was all over the city. The articles were blowing up with his crimes: embezzlement, blackmail, assault, at least three counts of murder. Revealing that he was the one who had hired Chat Noir. Questioning what this would mean for his son. Speculating about his wife, her happiness, even her death. She had to stop reading those eventually. Rumours were such an ugly thing.

The other articles were on Ladybug. That was what they were calling the masked woman who had snuck on stage and danced Chloé’s part. _Chloé must be furious that one got out_ , Mari thought to herself. Unfortunately, absolutely everyone backstage had heard how she’d been tied up backstage for the majority of the second act. The news crews had gotten a hold of it and now everyone wanted to know who this masked phantom was. One article even claimed it was like Gusseppi herself had risen from the grave to reprise her original role. Mari wasn’t sure whether to be flattered or disturbed. But Alya was obsessed. Like with anything she didn’t already know, she _wanted to know._ She already had one Ladybug-dedicated blog up and running for people to post their theories: The Ladyblog. Mari shook her head, typed back a quick message, and padded downstairs.

She spent the rest of the day baking in the kitchen with her parents, lulled by their familiarity and their unconditional love. They kissed her on the forehead and fussed over her to make sure she was okay. She assured them she was, though it was a lie and they all knew it. But _[La Vie En Rose](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5IXdEXTeDko) _ was playing and her mother was humming along while her father stirred his dough, and just for a moment, she let herself be soothed by the melody of her childhood. The song was a familiar one. Her mother had watched _Sabrina_ far too many times as a girl (and consequently, so had Mari). It was part of the reason she’d come to France for a cooking course in the first place. Part of the reason she’d fallen in love here. And watching _Sabrina_ in turn was the reason Mari had fallen in love with Audrey Hepburn and with fashion. Every action had its causality. And it’s consequences.

Her parents moved back and forth with a harmony that was well worn, while Mari sat between them on the counter, piping macarons. _Adrien doesn’t have this_ , she couldn’t help but think. _He lost this when he was eleven years old._ She shoved the thought away.

“That poor boy,” her mum sighed, holding out a hand. Her husband put a wooden spoon in it without a glance her way. “Having all his family’s dirty laundry splashed across the _Paris March._ ”

Her dad shook his head. “That’s the end of a dynasty right there.”

And it was true, the Agreste label was ruined. But they didn’t even know the half of it.

Chat had gotten off lucky.

~

_Then_

When at last they left that little room and all its secrets, her parents and the rest were waiting just outside. And by ‘rest’, Mari meant she was vaguely aware that there were other people in the hallway, but she barely gave them a passing glance. Her parents were already there, immediately wrapping her in their arms, as they checked her over for injuries. She snuggled closer, needing the reassurance.

“Oh Mari baby, are you okay?” her mum asked, stroking a hand through Mari’s hair.

She made a noise that could have been taken for assent or dissent; she didn’t really care. She just cared that they were here, that they were hers, and that she was going home. But no matter how hard she squeezed her eyes shut and pretended the world beyond her parent’s embrace didn’t exist, that didn’t make it so.  She could feel their concern like a physical thing, and she knew it wasn’t just for her. They would have seen Gabriel being taken away, and they were smart enough to know what was going on. Which meant some of their attention had extended to include Adrien in its circle. Behind her, she could hear the police arranging times for him to come into the station to give his statement, working with Madame to arrange it around his schedule.

“Do you have somewhere to stay tonight?” Someone asked.

“He’s welcome to stay with-” Mari still had her face buried in her father’s chest and she squeezed him tight in a silent _no._ He frowned. She could feel it in every line of his being, and her father was not a frowner.

Before he could protest, Nino was already speaking up, saying Adrien would stay with him. speaking up. It was a statement, not an invitation, and when Mari peeked over her shoulder she saw Adrien nod. She couldn’t help but think he looked very small and alone right then, even as Nino gently led him away.

A short while later, Mari was waiting on the steps of the Palais Garnier when the [sky began to weep](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0WjnH6wfPZw). Her dad was bringing the car around and her mum was finishing up something with Raincomprix or Madame. She wasn’t sure which. But she was sure when Adrien appeared behind her. She knew it was him even before he spoke.

“Marinette.”

She turned. Drizzle was catching on his hair, his eyelashes, and doing exactly fuck-all to disguise the wetness on his cheeks. He looked _devastated_ , and yet still so stubborn. He reached out to take her hand, but she shook him off.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t want to hurt you,” he said.

“Oh?” she asked coldly. “And I suppose you would never have hurt my parents?”

“Those were just empty threats-”

“Just like your words,” she said, taking a step towards him. “And your kisses.”

“I didn’t know you back then-”

“And I don’t know you now,” she hissed.

“I promise – I _promise_ Mari, now that I’m not being blackmailed by – by-” he choked. He couldn’t even say it. “- I’ll never steal again.”

And right then her heart ached to comfort him, but she couldn’t. She pushed the feeling down until the anger and hurt and bitterness had smothered it.

“I swear I’m-”

“Sorry?” she snapped, because she’d heard that word far too much tonight and it had started to lose all meaning.

Sorry. Sorry. Sorrysorrysorrysorrysorry _sorry_.

She took that last step, right into his personal space as the rain gathered strength, plastering his hair to his skull in dark gold. “You…you only started getting close to me after that first night when I met you as Chat Noir.” Her voice calculated and cruel. “Were you worried I would figure out that it was you? Is that why you got close to me, to make sure I was wrapped around your little finger like all the rest? To make sure I stayed _blind_?”

He opened his mouth, closed it again. He had no pretty words for her this time.

She took a step back, spreading her hands wide. “Well I feel blind alright,” she laughed darkly. Because if she didn’t laugh she’d cry.

“Mari…”

“I’ll keep your secret Chat,” she whispered, as her mother approached to hurry her into the car. “But I never knew you at all.”

~

_Now_

After those first few following days, there was very little real excitement. Oh, people gossiped of course. They stretched talk of the incident out like gum that had been chewed too long, until it lost all shape and flavour. Mari paid them little mind. She went to work, she did her job like she was paid to, and if Alya was worried about her and Nino worried about Adrien, then that was just how it went.

“What’s up between you and Adrien?” Alya asked her eventually. “Did something happen?”

Mari shrugged, concentrating on her needlework.

Her eyes narrowed. “Did you two have another fight?” Her tone was incredulous. “ _How_? You like him, he likes you. What about this is complicated?”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

Alya wasn’t stupid. She knew something was up…but she let it drop. Partially because, in her eyes, Mari was still shaken from the attack. Partially, because she was her friend. Mari had never been more thankful to her for setting her curiosity aside.

Thankfully, Alya was also plenty distracted. Her Ladyblog was alive and humming with theories and ‘information’, and it was plenty to keep her entertained. The events of opening night had also added an extra punch to her article, which was now printed, and which Mari had dutifully pressured all her family and friends into purchasing. She had a copy of it up on her bulletin board at home. The article may have been over, but Alya wasn’t even pretending she wasn’t going to be hanging around the theatre anymore. She was basically Mari’s plus one, constantly at her side (when she wasn’t at her boyfriend’s), and Madame and the rest just had to accept it.

As it was, Mari spent as much time as possible in the dress workshops. There was always more work to be done after all, and now that Gabriel was out of the picture, she was the one picking up the slack. Which…it was a lot. Probably more than she could handle. Natalie was helping of course, but as she had been Gabriel’s assistant, she’d been in the station more often than out of it. She was probably in far more shock than Mari, After all, the amount of time Mari felt like she had truly _known_ Adrien was nothing compared to the years Natalie had dedicated to her employer. She seemed devastated.

So Alya helped by doing all the little jobs she could. She held thread while Mari knotted, she fetched and she phoned, and she brought Mari coffee or sandwiches whenever she had gone too long without a break. Which was most of the time, because Mari found it easiest when she could just lose herself in her work. Then she couldn’t think of what was and what might have been. Maybe Alya was mothering her a bit, but she wasn’t going to complain.

Mari was still working things over in her mind because, honestly, she wasn’t sure who she’d been getting to know these past few weeks. She didn’t know who the boy she shared Danishes with was. The boy she kissed. The boy she’d run laughing through the streets of Paris with, hand in hand. But it certainly wasn’t Chat Noir. But Chat Noir _was_ Adrien. It was all so confusing. Where did one end and the other begin?

She found she couldn’t even stay angry with him. Not like she had been in that room when his betrayal was fresh and burning a brand on her heart. She _wasn’t angry_. Hence the reason she was avoiding him as much as possible. Oh, she saw him enough at subsequent performances, but always at a distance. They never spoke, and there was always an inseparable amount of space between them. Never close enough to touch.

“He hasn’t gone to see his father,” she overheard Nino telling Alya, when the three of them were cooped up in the workshop sometime after eleven pm. “And his father hasn’t asked to see him.”

“Has there been anything?” Alya asked.

There was a pause, and she would bet on her father’s family macaron recipe that they were looking at her. She appreciated that they’d retreated to a secluded corner of the room to have their conversation. She would have appreciated it more if they’d taken it out to the hallway where she couldn’t hear them. But she just hunched her shoulders and set at her work.

“The police are still trying to connect Gabriel to all the things they know he’s done. He’s a slippery bastard, and he’s always used others to do his dirty work for him. But from what they have got on him…he’s going away for a long time Alya. Adrien’s going to be all alone.”

“If that’s loneliness, then I wish Adrien a life of solitude,” Alya snorted. Her voice lowered. “But has he told you what’s going on with him and Mari?”

“Nope. He’s been spending a lot of time with Chloé though. Sounds like they had a huge fight or something. They’ve been spending all their time cooped up together, talking up on the roof.”

“Do you – do you think they’re dating or something?”

“No, I don’t think so. Chloé’s super stiff around him.”

_Up on the roof_ , Mari thought. Her heart clenched. Unwittingly she’d always thought of that place as theirs.

“So Chloé…but nothing about…?”

They drifted off into silence, and she knew they were looking at her again. It must be confusing as hell for them, their friends going from goo-goo eyed to gravitationally-opposed in two seconds flat. But she didn’t plan on enlightening them.

She just moved away so she didn’t overhear anything else.

~

In the end, Adrien lied. Because there was one last treasure Chat Noir stole. Not one that any socialite or debutante or millionaire would miss – just a small treasure, loved not for its monetary value or collector status, but because it was loved. Just by her.

She found her lucky charm in her room, without explanation or attempt, and knew instantly that it was Adrien. She’d returned after work to find it sitting innocently on her desk where it most certainly had not been before. With hesitant hands she picked it up and ran her thumb over its cool surface. The edges of her vision might have blurred, but just a little bit.

“Nǎinai,” she murmured, holding the charm to her chest.

_I guess after breaking into some of the most well-secured mansion in Europe, breaking into the police’s evidence locker must have been child’s play,_ she thought. And she knew him getting it back for her was more than just an apology. It was him knowing how much it hurt to have something you used to remember someone by taken away from you. He just wanted her to have it back. And that, more than anything, showed her that Adrien was more Adrien than Chat. Or that Chat had far more Adrien than he let on. He might be arrogant, flirtatious, and have a bad habit of dressing in black and tormenting Paris’ wealthiest citizens, but he was _good._ He wasn’t entirely broken.

Going to see Adrien wasn’t really a conscious choice. She just found herself on the bus heading to Nino’s, and then walking up his front steps, and knocking on his door. She still hadn’t let go of her lucky charm yet. She didn’t intend to for a long while.

When the door opened she wasn’t prepared. Like, sure, she knew Adrien lived here. She’d come here to see Adrien. But somehow the sight of him was still surprising. Evidently that went both ways. His mouth had fallen open into a little ‘o’ of shock, which, frankly, was adorable. And rather disarming considering he was wearing soft, soft sweatpants and a sweater that seemed made for snuggling.

“…Marinette,” he said, after a moment to regain his senses. He still seemed subdued. “Uh – if you’re looking for Nino, he’s out on a date with Alya-”

“I’m here for you.”

“Oh.” He swallowed. “Okay. Why-”

She held out the hand with the lucky charm in it. Adrien’s eyes narrowed in on it, then flicked to her face, then back to the charm like he could only look at her for a few seconds.

“You’d better come inside then.”

He didn’t give her a chance to say anything, just turned on his heel and left it up to her whether she wanted to follow or not. After a moment, she let herself in quietly and closed the door behind her, following Adrien into the lounge. He leaned against the couch in a manner that might have seemed casual had she not known better, but instead, just looked defensive. His arms were crossed over his chest like he thought she was going to hurt him. And maybe she was. She hadn’t decided yet. But she knew she’d had to come.

“So I got your gift.”

He nodded.

“Why’d you steal it back for me?”

He met her eye at last. He looked almost angry that she would ask. “You know why,” he grunted.

She shrugged. “I can guess. But I’ve been wrong about a lot lately.”

He nodded. “You’re not the only one that feels betrayed.” He wasn’t fishing for comfort, he said it like he was stating a fact.

She came over to lean against the couch alongside him. “Yeah, your dad was just playing with you. That’s got to hurt.”

Adrien cast her a sharp look but seemed to realise she meant it. The tenseness in his shoulders eased slightly. “Yeah. He knew I was Chat Noir all along – his own son – and he still used me to get the jewels. Like just another one of his puppets.”

“You’re not his puppet,” she said. Not gently or angrily. She said it like he had; just stating a fact. “Because even when he was pushing you around, you still had your own agency. You let yourself get caught on that tape, didn’t you? And you could have hurt me or Chloé at the party and taken the jewels anyway, but you didn’t. You gave me all those hints as Chat Noir about what was going on, because you hoped I would figure it out. You’re your own person, Adrien.”

He let out a long sigh. “I never wanted to hurt you, you know. Or blind you. I was just curious about you at first, and I wanted to make sure you were okay. Make sure I hadn’t scared you too much. Then I started getting to know you better…then I started falling for you.” He said the last part as barely a whisper. With the kind of attitude of someone who expects to be punished for what they’ve said.

“I started falling for you too,” she said honestly.

He glanced at her, but her face was impassive. He looked away. “I read about you in the paper. _Ladybug._ I guess we both have secret identities now.”

Her laugh was bitter. “Yes. I’m not blameless in this either.”

He snorted. “You’re a lot more innocent than I am.”

“I doubt Chloé would agree if she knew the whole truth.”

“Maybe some things are better kept buried.”

There was a moment of silence between them, and it was almost comfortable. But Mari knew that since she was here, she needed to use the opportunity to iron out the details.  

“So that night at the party, when you went off to get us drinks, did you ever actually intend to come back or were you always going to ditch me?”

He glanced at her in surprise. “I ditched you because I had to go be Chat Noir.”

“I know. Though at the time I thought you were just blowing me off for Chloé.”

He frowned. “I told you Chloé and I are just friends – if that…she still hasn’t forgiven me entirely.” The thought seemed to subdue him.

“Being lied to will do that to a girl,” she said, unsympathetic.

“I didn’t want to lie to you,” he sighed.

“Is that why you told everyone the truth? The other night at the party I mean.”

He fixed her with a look she couldn’t discern. Something between annoyance and tender resignation. “I told the truth because I didn’t want you to be outed. I’m the guilty one here.”

“I’m not innocent either,” she said bitterly.

“But you’re not guilty,” he snapped. “Everything you did, even when it was wrong, you did for the right reasons. I didn’t want you going down when I was the one who should take the fall.” He rolled his eyes. “And hey look, the _Agreste_ name has even broken the fall for me somewhat. Thanks to a generous sponsor.”

She hummed, letting that sink in a moment. Then she glanced at him curiously. “Why did you keep coming to the theatre at night to watch me?”

His answering grin was crooked, and entirely Chat. “I always wanted to see you dance,” he said. “At the start I wasn’t sure what you were up to when I caught you practicing the Coppélia routine. I thought it was some rivalry thing with Chloé maybe, or leftover competitiveness; you proving that whatever Chloé could do, you could do too, even if you were the only one that knew it. It didn’t click until I saw you onstage on opening night. Even subconsciously, I don’t think I ever thought you’d really do it.”

“I didn’t either.”

“I’m so sorry I scared you – no, I mean it,” he said, when she tried to interrupt. “Especially about your parents. I know how much you love them.”

She looked at him, and _god_ was his expression heart-breaking. The urge to reach out and touch him welled up inside her, but she smothered it. Instead she looked at her feet. “I’m sorry about your mum…and your dad.”

He nodded numbly.

“You used you. That’s awful to have been manipulated by someone you love.”

“It almost feels too easy, you know, him just giving up like that. But it also feels like a kick in the balls. Because after everything that happened, I still couldn’t stop him. Not as Adrien. Not as Chat Noir. Le Papillion was always in control.”

“Don’t do that to yourself.”

He carried on like she hadn’t spoken. “What hurts worse is the fact that he basically gave himself up because he really thought that that was it. He’d lost the rubies, he knew he’d never get his hands on them again, and that for him was the endgame. That was all he cared about. Why did they have to be so goddamn important?”

“Sometimes people care about the things they shouldn’t, and don’t care about the things they should. That’s not your fault, and that’s not your problem to fix.”

“At least I got her brooch back,” he said, and his words sounded hollow in the wake of his grief, but she knew he truly meant them.

She clutched her lucky charm close just as he glanced up at her.

“I could should you sometime…?”

She thought of her grandma, of how much her own charm meant to her, and at last she nodded. “I’d like that.”

And she realised she meant it. She wanted to see his treasure. She wanted to learn more about his past. She wanted _more._

Mari wanted to be there for his future.

Yes, she’d been betrayed, but that was in the part. She’d cared for him and he’d hurt her. But he’d been hurt too by situations neither of them could control. There was a part of her that was still upset, that ached like a bruise on her heart that she just kept prodding. But she wanted Adrien in her life more than she wanted to hold onto that hurt.

So she clapped her hands together and with fake brightness asked, “So what have you been up to while I’ve been moping?”

He blinked in surprise at her sudden, sunny disposition. Then he allowed himself a hesitant smile. It was the tiniest of things, but she’d take it. And so, he told her all about his parole officer, who would be checking in on him weekly to make sure he was still on the straight and narrow. If he broke his promise, there would be no mercy. He told her how they’d insisted he have a sponsor, who in this case, was obviously Mr Bourgeois. Though apparently Madame was keeping an eye on him too, so that was good. He’d been having dinner with the Bourgeois' a lot, and slowly working to repair his and Chloé’s relationship. It wasn’t easy, but she was his best friend. He was determined to earn back her trust. Mari nodded along, filing away information here and there, but she was only half-listening. She was watching his face. Adrian still had that hurt behind his eyes, and she expected he’d have it for a long time. But the tension in his posture had been bleeding out of him as he’d been talking. She wondered if he’d even known how much he needed to speak to someone about this. Or perhaps he’d just needed her.

He had a beautiful face, that was true, and his eyes were so pretty and so _green_. But she watched him and knew there was so much more that made him beautiful.

“…can come with me sometime, if you’d like?” he was asking.

“Hmm?” She realised they’d been moving closer while he was talking, until their shoulders nearly brushed. And perhaps his hand had drifted down to loosely encircle her wrist. And perhaps her body had curled in towards him.

“To dinner?” he asked huskily. “At the Bourgeois’?” But even he didn’t appear to be paying attention to what he was saying.

She leaned forward.

“Mari?” he asked breathlessly. “What are we doing?”

“We’re moving forward,” she breathed, her face already so close to his. “If you want to, that is.”

“I want.” He swallowed. “I want that.”

She nodded. “No more secrets.”

He nodded and then their lips met and all she could think was _finally._ To think she’d considered never doing this again. To think she could have given this up.

His lips were tender against hers. God, so tender. She’d never known that kisses could be this gentle, that she could feel this safe, this cherished. It felt like the first time, and in a way, it was. When at last they pulled away, breathless, just for a moment, he was looking at her with adoration. Then he quirked an eyebrow and there, _there_ was that sassy grin she’d been missing.

He leaned forward until he could whisper in her ear, “Does this mean I can finally make a bad joke about stealing your heart?”

There was a pause. Then she smacked him lightly upside the head. “Silly kitty,” she sighed. But she was grinning.

And she knew, she was so, so _lucky._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And there we go! I'm going to add a short epilogue (which should be out soon), but for all intents and purposes this story is done. I'm going to go back and straighten out a few points, but if there are still plot holes and mistakes, just love them and move on. 
> 
> Thank you all for your love, your support, and your reviews/kudos. (And for putting up with a gross amount of youtube-linking. Because yolo).
> 
> As always, feel free to check out my [To Catch a Cat Burglar pinterest board](https://www.pinterest.nz/chocgirlnz/to-catch-a-cat-burglar/) or come visit me on [tumblr](http://nochurrointheversecanstopme.tumblr.com/).


	8. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaand a little epilogue to finish you off.  
> I know no one asked, but I really felt like explaining: I was originally going to use "ballerina" in this instead of "danseur" and "danseuse", but the male variant of ballerina is "ballerino", and both are Italian. I know basically everyone uses ballerina, but I felt like using the french versions since this is, after all, set in Paris. If that's confusing, fair enough. Though in that case I should point out that we seem to use "Ladybug" and "Chat Noir" when by all rights one of them should either be "coccinelle" or "Black Cat" for consistency. *Throws hands in the air* But what do I know?  
> Anyway, I hope you enjoyed your regularly scheduled ramble, now please enjoy the epilogue:

“I should have known, really. You always did have that Natalie Osipova vibe,” Adrien muttered out of the corner of his mouth. Dangerous, considering how close to Nino and Alya they were sitting. “ _Ladybug,_ ” he added.

“I should have known Chat Noir was you just because of how great his ass was,” she whispered in his ear, promptly causing him to choke on his coffee.

Nino leaned over to thump him on the back and Alya shot Mari a look that just made her feel dirty. No doubt she assumed Mari had whispered something far worse. Which was silly, because she and Adrien had only been dating a few months and yeah, okay, Mari was kind of conservative when it came to that kind of thing. (Not entirely though. God, she felt like a pervert every time she saw Adrien in a bathing suit at the Bourgeois’. Heavy breathing galore). So far, they hadn’t gone any further than hot and heavy making out on the couch while her parents weren’t home. Maybe a little bit of under the shirt action. _But that was it_ , she thought with a blush, as Alya continued to leer at her.

“You were saying, Alya?” she prompted, a little desperately. Alya fixed her with a knowing look, but launched back into her latest Ladybug spiel, which she and Adrien had so rudely interrupted.

The thing was, that wasn’t going to be it forever. It had only been a few months, but Mari already had this feeling in her gut about the two of them. She and Adrien were something good. Something solid. She didn’t know how things would turn out, but she was happy, he was happy, and she wanted to hold onto this feeling for as long as she was able. If that turned out to be forever, well, who was she to argue? Sometimes when she looked into Adrien’s eyes when he was smiling _that smile_ at her _,_ her heart skipped a beat and she couldn’t help but think, _forever._

Her parents had all but adopted him, of course. Though she knew Adrien’s lack of anything in the parental department to offer in return bothered him. He hadn’t spoken to his father since the arrest, though he had certainly seen him. Having your court case broadcast live on television tended to have that effect. She wished the case wasn’t dragging out like this – for Adrien’s sake, not Gabriel’s – but it was inevitable when it was also the messiest trial of the decade. She’d taken to changing the channel whenever something about Gabriel came on, because she hated the look Adrien got in his eyes and he would never change the channel himself. Then there was his mum…

“She would have liked you,” Adrien had told her, one night when they were over at the Bourgeois’ penthouse.

His voice had been hushed, and it’d occurred to her then that the last time they’d been in that hallway was back at the beginning. When she’d met him with claws and a Cheshire cat grin, and her heart had held nothing but fear. But the fear was gone, and the hallway was warmed by the soft glow of a nearby lamp and the gentle expression on Adrien’s face. They had stumbled across a small photo, hidden amidst the dozens proudly displayed across the Bourgeois’ wall. Even without Mr Bourgeois’ atrocious hairstyle, the image of a very, very pregnant mama Agreste would have given her some idea of the photo’s date. _Old family friends,_ she had remembered Adrien having said. The woman in the photo was young and beautiful, and full of life. It was sad to think she hadn’t gotten to live it to its fullest. But that wasn’t supposed to be a sad moment, and so she had squeezed Adrien’s hand tight and said, “Of course she would have. She sounds like a woman with taste.”

They went around to the Bourgeois’ for dinner a lot. She and Chloe had finally reached an understanding, in which Chloe was a bitch, but didn’t really mean it, and Mari dryly gave back as good as she got. But neither of them really disliked each other anymore. They certainly were never going to be best buds, but they had something in common: how much they cared about Adrien. It helped that Chloe seemed to have finally let the last of her one-sided crush go. Last Mari had heard, she was being pursued by some art student named Nathaniel. Chloe insisted he was nothing more than some starry-eyed idiot, but Adrien had grinned and commented that he’d seemed very level-headed when he met him. And very persistent. Chloe hadn’t refuted him quite as much as Mari had expected. Interesting.

She was glad the Bourgeois’ had been there for Adrien, because not everything had gone so smoothly. The Agreste label had tanked, and to pay off his family’s debts Adrien had been left with a choice: sell the house or sell his mother’s brooch.

He sold the house in a heartbeat.

“It wasn’t my home anyway,” Adrien had told her, while they were strolling through the park eating croissants. He’d run a thumb over the back of their joined hands, a warm comfort, and she had supposed it was true, but her heart had ached for him anyway.

She needn’t have worried however. Adrien ended up moving in with Nino, who’d needed a flatmate, even though he bemoaned having to sort through all the shit he’d been piling in the spare room. He’d forced the three of them to help him clear it out, which was what had led them to this moment; drinking coffee, rummaging through his junk, and forcing him to get rid of things, while Alya regaled them with increasingly hilarious Ladybug theories. Some of the stuff people posted on her blog was just preposterous.

“Honestly.” Alya rolled her eyes. “It’s like these guys aren’t even trying.”

“I don’t know,” Nino wheezed, wiping a tear from his eye. “I like that one about Ladybug secretly being the president in disguise. That one was great. Top notch.”

She shared a look with Adrien. They were going to have to tell Nino and Alya at some point. It was going to hurt, no two ways about it. But they were their best friends, and they couldn’t go the rest of their lives with this giant chunk of information missing. Still, it was going to suck.

“Who needs _four_ keyboards?!” Alya exclaimed, jolting Mari from her melancholy thoughts as she pulled another one from under the bed.

“They’re my babies!” Nino grabbed the keyboard from her and clutched it to his chest defensively.

Mari snorted into her mocha and shared a smirk with Adrien. He looked like he was trying not to laugh. Then the smirk turned into something gentle as the moment dragged on and neither of them looked away. His reached out and laced his fingers through hers. _Forever_ , she thought.

And time went on.

Adrien finished moving into Nino’s, though he had so little to bring with him that it was actually sad. She came over for movie nights and sometimes she fell asleep curled up with him on his bed. Then she would guilt-trip, bribe, or bully Nino into making them French toast, depending on the day. It took a while for the hurt to finally heal, but the day came where Mari forgave Adrien entirely. She just woke up one day and realised it didn’t matter anymore.

They went out for dinner with Natalie sometimes, and of course they spent an inordinate amount of time at her flat above the bakery. Her parents fed Adrien so many Danishes that Madame had had to put him on a strict diet so that he would watch his figure for his dancing. Of course, her dad still tried to sneak him some, though Adrien usually declined. At which point Mari would laugh and tauntingly eat pastries in front of him until he grabbed her and manhandled her into a much more fun position. Hell, she wasn’t a saint. And his lips were far sweeter than any pastry.

She’d started thinking about moving out at some point. Not right then. But she was ready. Maybe at some point when Adrien was ready too, they could get a place together. It was just a thought, that was all. But that was the point. Mari was thinking about the future, about how this was going to last, and that was a crazy thought. Not much crazier than the fact that her boyfriend used to dress up in lycra and prowl around the city (she already had _so_ many ideas for his Halloween costume), but still.

Crazy.

About six months later, while Mari was watching Adrien audition for the role of Solor in _La Bayadère_ , all these thoughts came to a head. She was curled up in one of the velvet chairs, absently sketching the scene before her and all that came to mind: a leap, two joined hands, a gilded curtain…a certain smile. Madame, to her credit, had kept her knowledge to herself and made sure Adrien stood a fair chance in his auditions. He had to work for his roles more than before, because of those biased against his father, but biases couldn’t outshine pure talent. And maybe some days he suffered from a martyr complex because he felt he hadn’t been punished enough for his crimes. And maybe some days Mari felt the same. And maybe some days they ended up arguing about it until one of them kissed the other senseless just to shut them up. But that was okay. Maybe they’d gotten more than they deserved and maybe they hadn’t. Either way, they’d just have to live with that.

Onstage, Adrien finished up and wandered off to the side to grab his water bottle and sweat towel. She couldn’t help but stare as he took a long hard pull from his drink bottle, her fingers itching to draw the beautiful curve of his throat. He was still trying to convince her to audition for the part of Nikiya, but she hadn’t decided if she wanted to or not. She loved the glow of the spotlights, but she was also quite happy stitching on the sidelines. Especially as she was pretty much running the costume department now, since they still hadn’t sorted out someone to replace Gabriel. She’d made them hire her more helpers though, because Alya and Nino just hadn’t been cutting it. But who knew what the future would hold? Perhaps her inner Ladybug would make another appearance someday and bring her back to the stage. She raised an eyebrow as Adrien wiped the sweat from the back of his neck, lithe muscles glistening under the stage light.

If she got to work with _that_ every day, she certainly wouldn’t mind.

He caught her staring and smiled at her. It was that perfect, earnest, incandescent smile, full of happiness. The one she knew so well because it matched her own.

 _God I love him,_ she thought, relaxing back into her seat.

And the theatre was at peace.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And there we have it. The End.  
> I cannot thank you all enough for the wonderful comments and kudos and love this fic has received. It's been hella fun to write, and you've all been so fudging lovely. (It also makes me want to write a christmas oneshot set in the future in the same universe lol).  
> Thanks for reading and I hope you all have a lovely Christmas! xx


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